arctic circle

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c i r c l e  w a l k

The 67th parallel and shifting.
Hot, 28 degrees celsius.
Precisely where it runs?
Off seconds each year.
This time?

Aligning ourselves with a signpost,
we start down the sumpy hillside.
Tundra, sedge, orange moss, rivulets.
Onto a sopping field of berries.
Polished mountains appear near,
but get no closer as we walk
in this measureless space.



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Have you had the experience? 
Spongey clumps like stepping stones.
A network of thin streams inbetween.
Each foothold an ancient island,
furry as a meadow seen afar.


The circle is a line, a plane.
An inch becomes a step,
a path becomes a valley.
A valley opens onto mountains.
Continents ahead.



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Before us soft and soothing creases.
Revealing, concealing, close and far.
Never nearer, no distance in strides.
Where's the line? The circle, I mean.
Were we to make a way across them,
the way is back to where we are.



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A wet run, we hear babble.
Cold creek, we name it shale creek.
On its unknown banks, we pause...




behind abstraction.



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copyright 1995-96 felix s. huber, philip pocock