Three figures, shrouded by a broken tent,
lie, curled like question marks, in icy death.
A group of living men
with breaths, collectively,
like exhaled ghosts,
pronounce a brief but solemn prayer
and execute one last salute,
then leave departing footprints in fresh snow.
Years pass.
A century of change occurs.
Two great wars come.
God dies.
Prayers seem a waste of effort.
Man strives for planets not for poles.
Sons become fathers, grandfathers, then dust.
Scott, Bowers, Wilson, shrouded still,
lie frozen in Antarctica,
as far from home as any man can be.
Entombed in ice, preserved
unchanged, they seem to sleep.
Amongst the floating bergs
a massive silence rings.
Richard Fleming
