A gacier dies when it can't move anymore.
Author: Pam Swanborough
writing and other occupations
Emergence
Far out in space/ The moon looks down on a barren place/ Mirror of its grey and ancient face ...
Lullaby
‘Hello, moon,’ she murmured into the sky where the moon cut a sharp silhouette against the morning’s fading grey.
Chatter, Speech, Screams
Anthropocene we know you will not pause/ Gears grind gung-ho, macho ideas win / for now,
It’s not about the honey
It's not about the honey It's not about picnics panic free...
The Last Hole
It was unseasonably hot for October. At least it was dry, the golfers agreed. That was the important thing...
Incoming
I blink away a droplet of sweat and draw Bea's thin frame closer. She looks up at me, shivering despite the heat...
Gone Like the Bison
Sam’s fingers went double-time on the keyboard...
The Silent Pool
It squats amidst the park; a solitary pool/ Around a silent fountain; long since parched and still,/
Vultures
Beware that vampire money vulture./ Him and his corporate monoculture/
