This is another sonnet. It was runner-up in last year’s poetry competition organised by Ragged Raven Press.

Thin Ice

The Inuit word is sikuaq, ice so
thin you cannot trust it, for dangers skulk
in its growing and dying, its slow flow
and ebb of strength, the life within its bulk.
The secret is to spread yourself, avoid
all sudden movement, concentrate on how
the ice breathes, sense its mood, how it is buoyed
up by the dark water below.
                                                          Now
edge to where it leads you and try to find
a path that may not be there, like a spare
rib in a frozen skeleton or a blind
lover sensing tension beneath bare
skin: like love the outcome a leap of faith,
unknowable until it is too late.