Saturday; at Camp, I scattered some oats.
Weary Willy has kept the course so far
and the ponies seem to be strong. The clouds
are thin and rolling in Antarctic pink.
Saw James Pigg, Michael and Snatcher up ahead
and we drew up within an hour to rest.
The men are pink and soft and kind in chaff
and laugh between the quiet creaking ice.
At Shambles Camp we gave ourselves some sleep,
the snow like sand, loose upon the surface,
holds us back as the seasons hurry on.
We had our best hoosh yet – a pemmican
horse-meat stew which really heats the belly.
Canzone, I’ sento gia stancar la penna.