There is nothing pedantic
digging out of an ice-hut
derelict for fifty years.
The primus' hiss,
men stamping feet
under the steam of breathing ponies
snow flickering into every hole and corner.
Now they're blackened musculature
too cold to rot
their explorers' tent thirty metres under
iridescent suns. Leather straps
curl into one another
like snakes mummified together.
History's eaten by frostbite, conserved
down to the last metal cans.
on a biblical white desert,
dry valleys desiccating for all time
seals' bones scorched, froze
into aesthete whiteness,
a purity the crusaders would admire.
First time I saw trees again
I cried, because
they were like evergreen ghosts.
Robert James Berry
If you've any comments on this poem, Robert James Berry would be pleased to hear from you.