3.  Almost  

 

 

Her wings have stiffened. She trudges

through the deep uneven

sky, sinks in drifts and unseen

crevasses, wind-whipped, yet still not stripped

of the will to fly.

 

For she still trusts the sun,

the golden needle of its compass, the truth

in the unblinking gaze of its eye.

 

And there’s another force which draws her,

causes her to ignore

the land of warmth to her left

where food and rest would be in plentiful supply.

 

It’s a force that’s attracted to the North in her,

the thunder of summer light,

the blood of explorers in the tundra,

the tilting cap of ice.

 

It tugs her towards its itinerant home.

Almost due South,

but not quite. 

4. Touchdown

Slowly, she remembers solidity.

The bones of her feet recollect rock,

re-adjust to its touch after treacherous air.

She grows familiar with visibles –

icebergs, plankton, cliffs –

instead of the thread that yanked

her here: the pull of the Pole

and the trans-global route she knew to follow.

She expels a last grey breath of sky, inhales

this continent again, smells

the men for whom it’s blank and new,

frostbite on the heel of their need to conquer,

a white tomb.

For her it’s the site of summer food,

where her hunger to move

shuts its gaping beak,

shoves its head beneath its wing

and surrenders

for a time

to stillness.