Frost-bearded, they gaze across the vast whiteness,
As light-crumbled darkness closes in.
Could one ever forget the colour green?
Aurora here are rarely seen
But fingers turn, red to blue, toes brown to black
And snap off with a curdling crack.
Leaning homeward, the beards
Come stumbling off the frozen crag
And through a twilit grunted wordless drag
Attempt to bridge the echo’s lag
Between the flexed muscle and the murmured words
A dimming memory of kindness.
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Stephen A. Linstead
Picture Caspar Friedrich
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