opus at 4

nothing like expected the universe
glimpsed from side-on now waiting
for some ephemera to clutch
hosanna like run a giddy mile

ice formed in these unexpected hours
a vision of Scott dead at the pole
his dog tied to a sled
huddled against the bitter wind

on the mainland night shadows
slid the tarmac white doves
circled the black-slashed-dross-fallen-sky

this madness is not authentic
like yesterday’s grey wash — but not so
unpleasant to go within
the arc of the door swinging closed.