by Laura Hemmington
You say glacier to me in your English accent and I hear the ice. The blue ice of spray cans in December and those glassy mints we used to eat after swimming. The ones mum kept in that tin in the glovebox, rolled dusty in the powder of an earlier, sweeter treat. Glayce-ier. Glay-cee-er.
Yet when I say it back to you, my north-western hum rings thick with the crushed bark of dad’s cabin, up there in the jade hills. Glaysh-er. Glayshhh-errr. It carries the crunch of scree, the weight of crackling landscapes as they buckle on the move.
I wonder what the word will sound like, when all the ice has gone.
Laura Hemmington is a writer and freelance copywriter. She lives in London at the forest’s edge, with her husband and their senior cat. Twitter: @laurahemmington