You struggle for breath.
And reach towards the sun
With yellowed fingertips;
Stunted roots
Can no longer drink
The static water that was
Once a stream.
 
Your perfectly preserved husk
Lies buried;
Sheets of glass
Protect your shroud from
Arctic hare and polar fox;
Their footsteps vibrating gently
Against the windowpane of
Your mausoleum.
 
Strangers arrive,
They claim this rock
And give your grave a name:
Helluland.
As if by naming it they have
Called it into existence,
Erasing everything that went before.
 
You barely hear as they hunt the musk ox
Or spin their yarn
Or refine their tools.
Their crude instruments cannot
Trouble the expanse of your
Translucent casket.
There is nothing but
White
Silence.
 
 
A sharp tap
Breaks the ice –
It is no longer their instruments
That are crude.
You feel