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.