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White Out

Helen Pizzey

Iceberg white
of the cross-channel ferry

dri s large against
a billowed shroud
of milky, outstretched sky;

wind-ruffled plumage

of a migra ng seascape
hovers about the chalky scarp
that bluffs Old Harry Rocks

while the backlit shadow

of my bleached-bone soul,
like snagged and faded wool,

is strewn across pale sands,
blonde dog.

Not knowing whether
I face into brightness

or away from it,
I’m the vanishing point

on my own horizon.

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