When continents of
black ice close in
and, pressed against the wall
of your cave, you succumb
to the darkening embrace
of your very own Ice Age:
hibernate.
Hibernate.
Hold on till a ray
of the newborn old sun
slants in at the mouth of the cave
and, like a latter-day Stanley,
shakes your pale hand with a smile
of triumphant exhaustion.
Relief, it will say, is at hand
just around the next berg.
But, hey – watch it
as you stumble half-blind into thin light:
the polar bears are famished
and you don’t know where
beneath that smooth white expanse
the abyss is getting ready
to pounce.
whypoetry 
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