Terra Nova

“Everything you can imagine is real.” Pablo Picasso

Draw in your mind’s eye, a line, south from the land of the long white cloud,
where the place names are as Scottish as single malt and shortbread.

I stood there, on the Peninsula, where the ocean curved in a thin grey arc
and I tilted with it.  Its emptiness broke me, so I crawled on my belly
to the edge of the precipice. 

Nothing between us and the Ross Sea;
Mount Erebus beckoning, Scott’s hut awaiting -
its table a crate of Fry’s Cocoa,
two reindeer sleeping bags.

What do we need for the journey?

Thick socks,
the motor car,
twelve tins of corned beef,
a packet of ginger nuts,
that nice willow pattern bowl
and a gramophone to entertain the penguins. 

We’ll keep a straight course, through grease ice and pancake; 
admire the irregular tessellation of the crumbling ice shelf.

Until we reach our terra nova and you’ll see what I said is true;
glaciers are blue and Antarctica shines with all the colours of a fire opal.

We can stomp around in sturdy boots,
your beard frozen to icicles. 
I may even grow one too.

There’ll be no hunger,
no shooting the huskies,
no breakfast of frozen pony meat.

No frostbite,
no failure,
no disappointment.

It will all be splendid
and I’ll get you home in time for supper.