LOW TIDE

A glacier. Icebergs. Floating icebergs. Cold fog gliding through the folds since eras. There is not much to see. As there is hardly something. Actually nothing. One speaks of polar bears and goes ashore only armed. One speaks of the cold and goes below. But actually there is only water. An element in variation. Water, ice and fog. Can you see anything? Something different? I don´t think so. That deep woods of millenium trees stood here. That here, under the northern lights, warm freshwater played. And now the ice? Cyclops? The glaciers glide and break, it is said, they sing.
A seeker once sang a song from high mountains,

Seeked where the most biting wind blows.
Became a glacier roaming ghost.
Ghosts, melodies, tides, actually. It is calving.
(Source: Sebastian Koth)