Led Roald Anundsen

The wall is white - 
Our frozen exhausted breath.
We wrap in animal fur. The endless 
bitterness digs deep into our bone 
glassy sheets of bright ice. 

Our mood is flat, but with a purpose -
On to the South Pole. 
Everything we drag is the weight of our supplies 

Ten fold to the snowdrift. 
Blue lips and crystallised eyelashes. 
Dagger-sharp piercing of blinding eye pain. 

We walk, for no place to hide or seek
We pale the inevitable at Death’s Door;
A pillow of rest, The howl screams as we sleep. 
New birth shadows our day
We draw a judgement on a line - Every step is our last. Hold tight!
We forge a fearless tunnel; 

Steel to The Lord. 

A bitter taste of madness. Communication is useless. Race to the horizon. 

The mosaic chapter of the adventures of 1911.
 An unforgivable landscape of the endless sea base. 

Dream; first ticket of the four
Only the courageous seek. Beautiful pixies 
light the sky. 

Pencil to the notebook 
a never-ending storm; The wind is fierce. Nature’s rules are cruel.

No gold demands a finish.