And behind me I hear in camp Gentle snoring A compatriot in their tent Ringed with wire electrified Quiet, rhythmic. Sound safe sleep The fog has deepened now Thick The cliffs on either side, gone. And as I stand amongst these tent rings And ancient qarmat, homes I wonder if there are generations of ghosts Watching Watching me peering into a near invisible Sea of white ice, looking for something Padding silently, white on white.

Poem: It is almost profoundly quiet Almost The generator rumbles quietly Back at the camp And the river And the rain on my hood. Still, it is still Not a breath of wind in this fog And I can hear the gulls on their nests And the whistles of the guillemot And now the wingbeats Of eider As a small flock beats its way To the south, low over the water Then out over the ice And the chuckle of arguing fulmar, On water Hundreds more stream overhead Wraiths in the fog On their way back to the colony And now and then one low over water Gliding Millimetres above its reflection Effortless above not so much as a ripple Lifting just before the ice.