Alone in Base Camp




They come at night

the ice men,

with their snow crystal eyes and icicle beards,

in frozen formation

to my cold resting-place.

Empty eye-sockets mesmerize,

bony hands reach out for mine.



In my snow hide, on my ice ledge

my fading headlamp

waltzes shadows on the blue-frozen walls.

Wait, wait!

Draw back your clawing fingers,

retreat beyond the shadows where

you belong but not yet I.



Linked in hubris,

our Nemesis reflected

in the flicker of that dying lamp.




  Published in Candelabrum, Vol XI, No 4, October 2003.

  Copyright Marianne Whiting


Make a free website with Yola