Above, below the old ice-giant mumbles -
grumbles, chumbles away at this far-north fjord,
dropping his grungy debris grudgingly
into his U-shaped groove. A blue-ice berg
hovers beside madonna sky, will fall in time, not now.

Down here our scrap of ship, our slip
of grief and solace, slides in silent style.
On deck a couple smooth as satin glide
in strictest rhythm to the thrumming drum :
in rumba, samba, tango, walz - defy

with passionate precision, death and time.