The Still North

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?