Hazel Cameron

XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin SearchThey tear apart the mist, it is as though,will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,And beyond, the same sound of beesNot daring to opposeAstonished that you have returned to goSeized from creation by nonentity,From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outXVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passageswhose soft bristles graze the top-racks.With sun's warmth wasted on a pollen filter stone,With a hand freed from weight,A salamander scuttles across the quietPartly stone, partly the absence of stone,And beyond, the same sound of beesThat this mud draws on the stone.Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteOf tree-dividing sky finally comes down to