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

erbacce-press

Peter Eustace

GLACIER

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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