In this ice wharf there are no chocks bits or bollards,
Only the hemp holes dull in a gray circle;
Frozen barges list and blister oaken timber,
Shackled to the cold.
The arctic sea moves in a rink of whitefishes.
We can taste the winter sky, like metal stiffening,
Drinking from the flask of uncertainty,
Our nerves collapse into a rickety edifice of hope.
A day, a morn, a moon ferrying in shadows of despair,
Ten months a beggar, bearded with frost.
Our ship, now mouthing cakes of ice,
Its decks, hungering for a warmth;
With every breath of wind, wrought on a frozen anvil
Hammered into a sea crevice; pilings of wood to a collapse.
Harsh, harsh the bleak crag, salvaged to a bottom.
Prospect of survival encased in an icy membrane,
Each patched their soul to a meager meal and shelter.
In a row, ten fingers frostbitten,
Ragged to a hardship. Each stroke in a sea cut into a whitecap;
Landfall mollified a gravestone. Stiffened a rescue into place.
Copyright © 03/13/18 lance sheridan®