The Last March, Part 5

Cairn marking the site of Robert Falcon Scott's tent, 1912. Petty Officer Edgar Evans died in February 1912; Scott and the remainder of his party died during March. The bodies of Scott, Dr Edward Wilson, Lieutenant Bowers were eventually found in their tent by a search party in November 1912

Epilogue

On the pole,
A solitary flag –
Black –
Waves stiffly in the distance.

A journal –
Brilliant red –
Drawn from his fur-lined jacket,
Scott records:
“This blizzard began
As white smoke,
Billowing on the horizon.

No sun for days…

The question is:
What shall we find at the depot now?”

Outside the tent,
And beyond,
A whirling drift
Of wildly-moving snow
Blowing one way
And then against itself,
Is all that the eye can observe.

It almost seems
To be as if
All hell has turn’d
Inside out:
And once red hot
And burning flame,
Has become
Blue-white
And frozen.

And the hellish, hissing wind
Drives,
Spirals,
And subsides-
Then races again
Across the frozen plain.


The confounded travelers
Inch their way
Across the bleak and barren waste.

“Oates
Not pulling much.
Hands and feet
Are pretty well useless.”

And tracks,
In endless mile on mile,
Feet and steel rudders
Lay their faint memorial-
Only to be obviated
By the frigid foe.

“Poor Wilson-
Horribly cold.”

Hour after hour,
Day follows day.
One night becomes another.

Through the open tent flap:
The faintest of trails,
Irregular prints,
Disappearing
Over the cadaverous magnificence.

“Poor Oates
Walked to his death.
Would not give up hope
Until the very end.

…Brave soul.

This was the end.”

The frigid forces,
Their legions arrayed,
Slashed cold steel
Across the barren tundra.

“Edgar Evans –
Out of food –
He lay insensible.

Providence removed him.”

The Polar Predator,
Gathered in strength,
Hurls headlong
Into the crisp, cold air –
Pounding the ice
In rigid rage.

Then silence,
The symbol of supremacy,
Stakes its final claim.

The surface is still –
Pure white-
Basking in its innocence,
As fleecy clouds drift swiftly
Across the deepened blue.

And the wind,
Its spectral song
Skimming the air
Whirls ‘round the frosted,
Sightless dead.

Its frozen fingers
Turn the final page:

Last Entry:
For God’s sake
Look after our people.”

Over the twinkling coverlet,
It darts for the Pole.