Her head dawns over
The icy horizon, then
The rest of her. Queen.
we're not kids anymore.

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@asteroidpoetry
Her head dawns over
The icy horizon, then
The rest of her. Queen.

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Stars are tiny holes
In the curtain of night â through
Which peeps the cosmos.
The dumbest word I
Ever heard a bureaucrat
Utter was âcadenceâ.
The deep fried dim sim.
Ineffable meaty gem,
Swaddled in batter.
Roaring wankpanzers â
Hi-vis hands clutch sausage rolls â
Itâs highway lunchtime.

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Corona 2
You canât bullshit a virus,
And if you try
A virus will bullshit you.
Corona 1
The Sun itself is crowned on high,
Invisible crown because so bright.
Illuminating brilliant blue
That crowns the Earth.
The cockatoos laugh at us below,
Cackling crows in soaring flight.
Organisms giggling through
The soil of Earth.
They laugh because weâre ill.
Daimo Drinks Alone at a Bar
The pint glass, a comforting weight.
Reaching across my open book
To take the glass and
Sip the beer, the malty taste
Reminding me of taking a sip of my
Grandmotherâs beer as she sat on her stool.
If this childhood memory is so strong
Then could it be that Carlton Draught is my destiny.
Kathleen Scott to Robert Falcon Scott, St Paulâs Cathedral, London, February 1913
Be kind to yourself. I will look after our boy. I will sculpt you into form. You shall come home, and you shall walk around it, In admiration.
You have shown me the mountains, Robert â In your words. Obscured by blizzard or drift â Amazed by the colour.
Be kind to yourself. Sculpt your waiting into form.
Image source: Freeze Frame: Historic Polar Images (Scott Polar Research Institute). Reference: P2005/5/394 Â
Charles Wright, November 1912
I found the tent mostly buried under drift, Skis nearby, half buried. My insides churned, the blood dropping to my legs. My breaths in gasps. I couldnât dare shout out But whispered instead, though none could hear. âHere! Here! The tent! The tent!â I couldnât dare shout out, As if in a cathedral. St Paulâs or Westminster. You donât shout there. âHere!â I signalled with my arms, my mits close to flapping off. Finally they saw, and turned, The dogs and the sleds slowly moving towards This cathedral, Where words become lost as soon as they are uttered, Vaulting up to the grey heavens, No ceiling to close my grief.
Image source: Freeze Frame: Historic Polar Images (Scott Polar Research Institute). Reference: P2005/5/1249

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Cherry-Garrard, April 1912
The final sunset, no more for four months, And here comes our second winter; Our friends have not returned.
Our friends have not returned. And there we waited at One Ton Depot; Temperatures low, the dogs spent, The heatless sunset.
The hut is quiet. Empty desks and bunks. The dogs sang at breakfast time â At ghosts. Our friends have not returned.
Image source: Freeze Frame: Historic Polar Images (Scott Polar Research Institute). Reference:Â P2005/5/1595Â
Captain Scott, March 1912
Science - the rock foundation of all Effort. The rock foundation of all our toils up the glacier How we roared with the effort and the strain, Goggled against the big white And the Southern Sun.
The light dims.
The blizzard calms.
The stillness settles.
                     For Godâs sake look after our people.
Wilson, March 1912
All is well. All is for the best. All that we hoped to do are nothing now. All will be done in the life to come.
My own time is fulfilled. All is well.
Wilson, February 1912
His last words on this Earth: I donât know. If he had known that he would die down here, so far from Wales, our ever-reliable Evans would have snorted in disbelief and gotten on with it, mending a ski or rope with his pipe in his mouth. That wild look in his eyes, the gloves torn from his blistering hands, on his knees â may God welcome him home. May someone look after his wife and babes. I donât know. May God help him to know.
Bowers, February 1912
What does he write in his diary? I looked over his shoulder and saw in capitals THE POLE. Everything else is hard to read. He knows something. That blue-eyed gaze into the distance, Surely seeing nothing But feeling everything Every time he declares âCamp ho!â

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Scott, January 1912
Great God! this is an awful place.
Take the photograph, Bowers, And when you pull the string Shall we look grim and cold, Or shall we chortle At the audacity that has brought us here â Oh you can laugh, Bill â
Take the photograph, Birdie
Now for the run home    And a desperate struggle         I wonder if we can do it.
Image source: Tealin
Lt. Evans, January 1912
Good-bye, my friends, my five fit friends. Good sledging and youâll find The British flag first to fly At the great white worldâs end. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Three cheers!
(Look back.
Look back over there.
Tiny black specks On the horizon. Off they go. Good-bye my friends. Good-bye.)