His death approached,
a glacier,
massive, imperceptible,
scouring the rock
to brake,
an insufficient grip.

The trick
was that the changes
seemed to
happen all at once;
we’d wake
and find his crown of ice
had slipped metres
to the ocean,
the place where he would break.

The lie of his size
made him
seem invulnerable,
but he was only
part of the herd
pressing whitely on,
the course
as inexorable
as any
killing floor.

I float
some distance out
and watch him melt,
in this sea
that is warm to him,
cold to me.

He was never any landmark,
and I try not to blame him
as he ceases to be.

He wanted this,
ruminating darkly
on how little he would come to,
his progress
like a fist.