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.
James Greenwood-Reeves is a young writer and lawyer in Lincoln, England. His first poems were inspired by songs from The Smiths, R.E.M., The Cure and other mildly dated bands. His more recent writings, including poetry, short fiction and essays, can be found here