Burning Ice.

Burning Ice.


Your note was first to go followed by an arm and all that was below.

Moons swapped with suns and nights became days, weeks became years and that glow still stays.

The ice fills the land after a two mile gap.

You won’t find any oxygen the fire saw to that.

Church spires and skyscrapers peek out above the ice, a new land all frozen crisp, a new delight.

No movement, no birds, no people, no mice.

Nothing but silence and ice after ice.

Apart from a glow like a lump in the throat, it can be felt anywhere….

… just like your last note.


© G.P Williamson 2017


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