Poem 135: Sherpa

the utter ice of it, the white 

white broken black and blue 

and void unstoppable gaping 

maws sucking souls into unfathomable 

frozen rattling death breath, 

the beating beating beating of feet 

and hearts and minds and the 

clattering lungs and bits of gear 

dangling randomly from ribs 

and packs his is too light 

because his is too heavy 

the cold the cold the 

cold razor blade slicing off lips 

and tongues and toes and ears 

nothing to hear anyway and 

the wet the sickly sweet smell 

of wet always wet and 

light pack overbearing assuming 

ha ha ha in the face 

of majesty tramping over virgin 

snow and humanity so disposable 

unseen unheard a herd 

of silent keepers kept

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Image: http://goo.gl/JNjseS

Note: Today's poem was inspired by this fascinating interview with Grayson Schaffer, a senior editor and writer for Outside magazine, who wrote an article about Sherpa guides on Mt Everest: http://goo.gl/RhGT3T

Poem 135: Sherpa