The Road to the Northern Light

It weeps tar from tender parts like frogskin. Thin, mobile

muscles squirm under your soles as it bears you across the

Hill Dyke on  a current of cool air, the bed of an invisible

river.  It has heath and tormentil, not dandelion but catsear.

It has a creep over a precipice; it has sorrel, parched and tiny.

It carries you above the white and lilac sea; it switchbacks,

and turn you before the sun like a sacrifice.


Jen Hadfield

(From Byssus)