IAN BELLARD

Impression

 

It’s what’s no longer there,

the impression it left,

what remains, that defines it.

 

Grinding slopes,

sharpening ridges,

piling up moraines,

it moved,

as slow as moles are blind.

 

So long,

so very long

since the white giant,

pure cobalt blue within,

dirty-brown at the edges of upheaval,

 

melted away

leaving a stream,

a trickle

meandering

amongst displaced boulders

 

and muddy trails

with the impression of our boots

where we stood

as we tried to define it.