Ice Age

Strands of sugared spider web 
hang from the heavy, sagging eaves; 
brittle as bird bone, fragile as virgin love; 
complex as the human soul. 
Yet, with primal nerves I comprehend 
it's purity, it's thoughtless artistry enhanced 
by freeze. 

So perfect the construction seems, 
astonishing beauty, a magnified flake of snow; 
preserved by frost, strands framed in time; 
the maker long dead, unknowing. 
Yet, the intent upon creation, 
the motive, was to be a killing trap, 
I know.

It made me come to realise, 
this beauty born of a murder device, 
the clever contempt I once believed 
to be cooler than smoking cigarettes 
beneath a fjord, has turned the tide on me; 
freezing me out with coldest solitude in this age 
of ice. 

Fangs of water hanging down 
as ruthlessly sharp as tempered steel; 
teeth in the jaws of a loveless corpse, white above the door; 
poised an impaling bite, well, 
they might as well run me right the way through 
and pin me to the snow-driven floor, for all the pain 
I'd feel.

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