The Iceberg Poem by Lisa Williams

The iceberg moves will-less
through shades of gray and gray,
a tower of clouded glass

seeming proud ofisolation, rising
in air. Or the iceberg's top lies
flat along the water, its misshapen

turrets jutting below the surface
like an upside down, gothic cathedral
made of ice.

Around the tower and its moat
or the inverted iceberg, or tipped cathedral
dipped in the green-black liquid and remote

in mists (if you could stand in the middle
of it all) is the smell of ice and brine,
rough sea in the purist wind

that blows from far-off coasts
and stays here, freshening.
You would taste a tinge of time

on your tongue, its encrystalled distances
jagged in the strong dark absence of lament -
that chunk of knowledge always inaccessible

but always defended by the physical
world, without judgement or pretense,
simply floating.