This poem is taken from Stand 221, 17(1) March - May 2019.
Two Poems
Face
As the snow melts they sit up and sing
with whatever thin air they have left—
three hundred climbers all white skin,
brown bones, wool and rope and mixed fibres.
Imagine it: the inside of your head a cairn,
...
Face
As the snow melts they sit up and sing
with whatever thin air they have left—
three hundred climbers all white skin,
brown bones, wool and rope and mixed fibres.
Imagine it: the inside of your head a cairn,
...
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