Such forests strewn over Poland! wintry
sticks. And snow. These things I have not seen.
The indigene tells of this; those blackened
things caught between - like birch trunks, heavy
coated soldiers over drift - deepening loss.
Every night it is the same, greenly spun
in the iced-cube light of skyscrapers, the Master
Chef dreams he is pitched from the highest
viewing deck in all the world: Grollo Tower,
down through boiling mist into the river Yarra.
July is the coldest month; odours freeze
on the air, vowels solid as hail-stones can slip
centimetres off the tongue in the mouth’s
burrow. Somebody is pierced by silence as with a
bayonet, there! standing hard by the tumulus.
Snow bound, snow blind, the sleety night,
road signs indicate left or right are one breath.
Rocket mist settles over Lake Baikal -
the forecast promises another successful launch;
tomorrow, we extend our sight further yet.
By Stephen OliverQLRS Vol. 4 No. 4 Jul 2005