In the North

A blast off the Atlantic

snaps a flag in the Firth

of Clyde, while thirty leagues

away, the same synoptic wind

surges across this hillside

honeycombed with mineshafts,

sounding the unstopped slots

of a "G" harmonica left

to dry on the kitchen sill.

Snow charges a sky

in which the sun swims

and glimmers like a groat,

a turbulent space where owls

hunt by day but nothing

stands for long—bereft

of circumstance—beyond

the standing stones of

Long Meg and Her Daughters.

Through the night, like a stoker

on a fast express—the Hyperion

on its Edinburgh run—

you hoy buckets of coal

on the grate, only to see

its flames drawn up

the chimney, getting more

heat from hoying the fuel

than from its burning.

As a barnacle goose swims

against the dark, uttering

its terse honk, you pull

your favorite word, duvet,

close about your head.

Tomorrow, bailiffs may

take everything

not hammered down.