The skies of ice have scoured the fields
And scarified the dormant Earth.
A flock of fieldfare crackle south
And scatter tales from Arctic wastes.
The planet tips the silver sun,
And pours the hungered hoars of god,
Forgotten herds and stranger’s words,
Ephemeral mists of tundra swans.
The settling stillness hangs as haze,
Too fine for sight, it taunts the light.
A winter pale, the merest veil,
Impossible the crystal threads.
Who now translates the polar songs?
The stars? The birds? The voiceless ones?