NORTHWAY
I wasn't always holding things in
the manner of some arctic traveller
making straight for the Bering Strait.
Dogs on ice, braying for bones.
Someone blowing a bone-flute, the
little sound, alone, scraping over
the snow and ice. Wind which howled
like a rampage sung the tune of forever.
Each morning, a dim light awoke the horizon,
which then trumped lazily its next approach -
more, more, more bright white bright ice.
We never seemed to move, though we
travelled all day.
I wasn't always holding things in
the manner of some arctic traveller
making straight for the Bering Strait.
Dogs on ice, braying for bones.
Someone blowing a bone-flute, the
little sound, alone, scraping over
the snow and ice. Wind which howled
like a rampage sung the tune of forever.
Each morning, a dim light awoke the horizon,
which then trumped lazily its next approach -
more, more, more bright white bright ice.
We never seemed to move, though we
travelled all day.
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