This poem is taken from Stand 240, 21(4) December 2023 - February 2024.
Whiteout
We thought they were hulks of cloud
in the morning dark, not moving.
Just scissor-cut shapes with a shaking hand,
looming over breakfast. Then the sun
hit the peaks
...
in the morning dark, not moving.
Just scissor-cut shapes with a shaking hand,
looming over breakfast. Then the sun
hit the peaks
...
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