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Antarctica
Space, steam, whiteness.
Footsteps track back to base,
that distant memory,
far from this ragged place.
An icy wind blows hard.
Eyelids white with frost crunch closed.
South the man goes,
dragging his sled on feet with dead toes.
A brown fist clutches reins of leather,
the chains that tether the traveller
to his rest and food,
and all he possesses,
and needs,
and holds.
Every in breath bites with cold.
It fights towards him through his clothes.
Face wrapped in thick grey bands.
Coat dark blue,
legs were once an orange hue.
A speck of plastic seen from space
the only colour in these lands,
the only life in this white space.
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