stood tall and
black, like a crag.
His limbs were hairy and icy.
His beard was frost, and there was snow
on his shoulders. He was His own ice-mountain.
His mail-shirt bristled with ice-spears. He seemed
to embody everything heavy and hard and fixed, that even
human influences on global weather patterns in turn influence cultural and econ-
nomic patterns, creating a feedback loop, a 'carbon time bomb' that alters nature
nature while destroying this round of civilization. If there is hope for future generations,
wind and sand must be weary in wearing away. His eyes burned horribly in His blackish
face, and He gnashed and gnashed His teeth. And no steam came from his breath, but only mist."




Bjarne Herjulfsson, Lief Eriksson, Erik the Red,
Erik Blodøks (Erik Bloodaxe), to name a few,
sailed through northern mists centuries before
Sir Hugh Willoughby and sixty-four of his crew,
marshalled a parade of Anglo frigates frozen
the tempests of arctic hagiography.


With glaciers melting, bodies rise to the surface, farting beyond where the North Wind
originates; here, the Homeric hymns say, live the Hyperboreans, a fortunate people who reside in a
sacred wood with a large round temple dedicated to
the gases of sanguineous tales,
inflated with a
appetite for celebrity.

Windbreaker, a deflated sail;
battered hat hangs on a peg,
                         a bowed head;
on a cold stove woolen hands hiss.