Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


Peter Eustace



Grit-heavy melt-water seeps

From the retreating glacier  

Slumped against the gouged

Mountain like a forgotten relic.

A chill breeze hisses like

Poured sugar over the scree


As ice catches sky-blueness

In cavities. Brazen sunshine

Trawls the steep sky, dissolving

Slovenly to monochromes till

That luminous darkness comes,

Brief, unreal, heralding final night.


Whisperings creak waiting

Moonlessly as if the frozen river

Were a beast breaking its bounds,

Ready to pounce. The cold

Grumbles, gets sharper, wind

Like icicles in the eyes.







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