The Still North
Here, the sun drops its saffron feathers,
Upon my dampened brow.
Here the wind winds its silken fingers,
On the grassy bald.
While the granite stands; erect, muted, and
Waits like gravestones,
For the Still North to remember my name.
Tell me friend;
When what I have is gone at last,
And I am as the dust which lies upon this naked summit,
Will this place recall our time?
Will The Still North call out for me,
And smile fondly,
As a loved one?