I imagine the dry crack,
unremarkable;
no one to observe the fissure,
all but invisible, on the distant face
of the glacier; impossibly slow
the slide of white on white;
the roar of descent, the splash
of the berg unheard –
their echoes yet to be born
at such a latitude, such a longitude:
this is how history is launched:
a frozen chunk of past drifting
blindly, with deadly precision,
into the future.
15 April 2012 – centenary of the Titanic sinking
whypoetry 
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