Mag 198

Ice Field

   Leader raised a hand and all three sno-cats stopped.  The crews peered, squinting into the sun glare.

   "Looks like a tent!"

   About two miles ahead on the level ice horizon, a triangular shape showed, the single interruption to the glassy vastness.

   "A tent? Here? Eighty-seven north? More'n forty below?"

   Leader beckoned the teams forward. The engines revved.  When they had covered half the distance, she called another halt.

  "It's not a tent!  It's a sail. It's a dinghy."

  Three crews looked at each other.  "Come on. Someone's in big trouble."

  They came up to the tiny boat, stopping the sno-cats equidistant around it, staring, not believing. After a moment Leader dismounted her sno-cat, approached the craft, pushed up her goggles.

  "These guys didn't die of cold, hunger, whatever . ."

   The ice-trapped dinghy had a two man crew. One, his hand still on the tiller seemed to be calling out to his mate who was leaning out backwards over the port gunnel to balance the tilting hull. A crew tacking a small boat, perfectly coordinated, dead. Both bodies were rigid, covered in the rime of frost, beards iced, hands set like claws as they went about their tasks.

   "Jesus!  They were, like . . . flash frozen. What on earth . . . ?"

   The sno-cat team, uneasy now, gazed round the flat and featureless ice. The sheet

darkened as the summer sun sank to the horizon, approaching midnight, and a strange wind began moaning from the north, from the Pole.


This Mag post was suggested by the Mag 198 picture - from Tess Kincaid.

   The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

Mag 188

Waiting

Do you remember our stone house
at the road's end, at the moor's edge
where gales raved in the sedges
where the clouds' low architraves
lay in leaden sheets, and the land
waited the primroses' return?

Do you recall the promises
we made, making the windows fast,
locking the door, locking in our words,
safe with the cobwebs and dust,
a promise to return to these
old stones, to rub the windows clean,
restock the shelves, lay warming fires?

The day we named has passed.
Rain drifts down from the distant hills.
I make my hands do their small tasks,
try not to wonder where you are

Posted in response to Tess Kincaid's photo prompt for Mag 188.  
The photograph of Haworth Moor, Yorkshire, UK is by Mark Haley, 

Magpie #128

Untitled.

It's said that much depends 

upon a red wheelbarrow

glazed with rain 

beside the white chickens.

Perhaps and perhaps not.

Chickens seek shelter

from the rain and barrows

quickly fill with water.

My own barrow (by Hamelin)

is dark blue. It sits beside the 

red one and and both of them,

the red and blue hold water now

enough to drown the chickens

and perhaps or perhaps not

myself for afters.

Posted for Mag 128, prompted by a photograph by Elena Kalis.

Last May

When we first met the larches showing pink,
hinted at May. We linked our hands. We kissed
over the garden gate. Silly? I know.

Now you are gone, the latch behind you fallen,
the larches might as well sleep under snow.      
The gate hangs lifeless on a broken hinge        
since May, last May, eternities ago.


Posted for G-Man's weekly 55 word request. Plenty more if you follow the link.              

The Willow Manor Mag No.141

Gone

I thought you'd gone. Really, I thought you'd gone.

I never dreamed you'd never not look back,
would even pass my window and not wave.
So music died, heartstrings untuned, gone slack.
I faced my mirror as it were my grave,
the heart stitched to my sleeve come quite undone.

Until the rose, the single blood-red rose,
left on my step, speckled with summer rain
and you, retreating till I called you, dropped
my defences, wept, wept and breathed again,
kissed you until this torn heart's bleeding stopped,
sutured now, comforted and in repose.


For Tess Kincaid's Mag 141 from the Willow Manor.

Leaving

I will remember how the slanted light
visited my room, and how the clock
I mended - so many years ago - measured
the flow of then through now to next
dropping each steady second in the pool
of such time as is left. They drop like stones.

Somewhere the furniture that lived with me
will still be knocking about. My chair. My desk.
The little bed I dreamed on, waited, wept,
now are all gone, to dustiness, to sales
and nothing to hold but untold memories.
A floorboard creaks, door closes, last look back,
and then the turned key, prisoning the heart.


Tess at Willow Manor offered Andrew Wyeth's picture "Big Room"
for this week's Magpie prompt.

Haiku in 'N' Dimensions

Interesting how

Kline's picture looks a bit  like

a Mobius loop  . . .