White Blues
The icebergs float in stately queues
Cracked off from a continent fringed by blue.
Come close, the boatman says,
You can tap them, make them speak.
We drift by nearer, scraping moiré ice
And I strike the giant block and it trembles with song
Deep and groaning with great hollow voice,
Recollecting aeons of winter and snow,
Its flakes compact and densely crushed;
Frozen and firm, this antique slab.
Tight bound, for now, in bright orange mesh,
Throbbing engines launch its brisk northern dash
To the harsh and thirsty melt-lands of Arabia.
Mournful sea lions flap goodbye,
Penguins slipping off like oiled fish
Scramble back to their unstable shore.
Clive Donovan devotes himself full-time to poetry and lives in the creative atmosphere of Totnes in Devon. He has had many poems published in poetry magazines including Agenda, Acumen, Salzburg Review, Ink Sweat & Tears. He has yet to publish a first collection.