The car now sleeps, its morning slumber too cold
Surely to ever move. Its skin, still as
The epidermis of some ancient creature,
Forgotten in ice and darkness. Have you ever
Wondered how Arctic explorers must have feared
The sleeping death of cold, to wake and find
They kept no breath? Frost as thick as a thumb,
As hard as nails: an inch of tooth-white ice.
It bites the skin: it stings like lack of love.
And when you next scrape off that layer of white,
Imagine clawing out of their ice-house
As desperate as the wind, alone as night.
A structurally simple poem: but, when you are next helplessly revving your car, waiting for the moment it warms back to life, imagine the frost-cemented tents of those discovering their wildernesses. Peer through the half-opaque whiteness, watch your breath cloud and near-crystallise. Imagine clawing your way out into the howling wind.