Rocks; a roiling vortex. Then, a lull and the first frozen breath
Of the ghost-ridden Antarctic.
A cold-sweated vessel with depleted cargo
Exhaling smoke and death
Pitches Southerly towards the underworld.
Surfacing now, the foetal beast heaves
Its cleft hoof, its matted pelt, into view. The diptych
Keel of a strange bird, whose haunted largo
Drowns our Northern cries, cleaves
The swell. Black sheets of rain, unfurled
Lashes from Heaven's cat o' nine tails,
Sting our blinded eyes with hope's salty embers.
To the bitter end our breached passage through misty veils
Leads us, each one, down to Hell's antechambers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I also have poems on this website under the name Denise Woodhouse