On the third day out we realized
we’d left half the supplies back at base.
The ice held our mood in check.
The radio transmitter was glazed

like a pea in aspic,
could no longer ping
our Morse or morose
sos past the outer rim of things.

Day six the dogs died; Cedric “neglected”
to put out feed for them.
We ate the huskies, threw their bones aside.
Day seven polar bears, attracted by the remains,
began to stalk us. Day eight: Cedric mauled.
The rest of the camp sat appalled, gnawing
maps, the catgut from snowshoes.
Day nine, blizzards and no water.

On day ten, we reached the snow-blind pole.
Leopold, fingers half-blue,
showed me the rimed photo
of his wife and daughters. Day thirteen:

tent blown off by gale force winds.
Day fifteen: Leopold dead.
Sixteenth day. There’s me, myself and I:
the rest not quite so fortunate.