By Jay Macpherson
The guardian stalking his eternal snows
With backward tread and never any sound
Afflicts the mind with horror more profound
Than caves and chasms among which he goes.
Below the snowline flourish greedy tribes
Who run with dogs to hunt him as a beast,
Then pass his pieces round in solemn feast
Accompanied with triumph-song and gibes.
The unoffending flesh they take for meat,
The hairless palms and cheeks, the white sad face,
Are human, even found in such a place:
Too like our own the still-reluctant feet.