Beth-Luis-Nion Ten thousand years since Ice Loosed its grip on us: I feel its chill. And all our tools and words Cannot keep back the winds Of ancient snow. Circled walls of Crete Gave way to cattle-skulls And now are gone. Cattle-skull and Moon Have raised their city-walls, Now buried deep. Oak and ash and thorn Have given way to steel, And yet it snows. Birch and Rowan and Ash Lie mutely carved in stone: A winter's sigh. My soul is frosted rime As just before the dawn Hope shivers; stills. copyright 11 August 2001, Chattanooga by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw