The Asteroid Poetry Project

The icy horizon, then

The rest of her. Queen.

In the curtain of night — through

Which peeps the cosmos.

Ever heard a bureaucrat

Utter was ‘cadence’.

Ineffable meaty gem,

Swaddled in batter.

Hi-vis hands clutch sausage rolls —

It’s highway lunchtime.

You can’t bullshit a virus,

And if you try

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.

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

Grandmother’s beer as she sat on her stool.

If this childhood memory is so strong

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 — In your words. Obscured by blizzard or drift — Amazed by the colour.

Be kind to yourself. Sculpt your waiting into form.

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 couldn’t dare shout out But whispered instead, though none could hear. “Here! Here! The tent! The tent!” I couldn’t dare shout out, As if in a cathedral. St Paul’s or Westminster. You don’t shout there. “Here!” 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.

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 — At ghosts. Our friends have not returned.

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 God’s sake look after our people.

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.

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 — Oh you can laugh, Bill —

Take the photograph, Birdie

Now for the run home       And a desperate struggle                 I wonder if we can do it.

Good-bye, my friends, my five fit friends. Good sledging and you’ll find The British flag first to fly At the great white world’s end.                                                    Three cheers!

(Look back.

Look back over there.