
I wonder when those snowflakes
started to pack on the mountain.
All individual, geometric perfection,
blown by the wind into corners
and crannies and drifts.
with snow on your shoulders,
pressing, pressing, pressing
until a layer of ice
became the memory
of another winter gone.
Year on year, snow on snow,
ice under pressure finding
strength in numbers and depth.
So many patient winters…
Deeper ice, living blue,
layered with grit
from rocks carved out
with glacial stealth…
Now at the sea, salt and cold,
where glaciers calve
plunging deep,
spray hurled high.
A swift transition.
Years invested in icy weight,
foreshortened to weeks
as the ice shrinks
diluting the salt sea
with ancient snowmelt.
All nature moves to an end.
Spectacle of wondrous cold.
Spectre of an Ice Age foiled.
Mighty, majestic, doomed.
Only God could have dreamed this:
River of ancient ice,
sculptor of peak and vale,
inspiring awe in mere Humanity-
that yet plays “god”
and melts history
in a senseless rush.
(c) Richard Starling, 2023.

Photo: Glacier Bay, 2016.