Holding the compass like a wounded bird,
in a trembling hand, to north of woods,
watching the ‘mingo.
A grid of ghosts where the river used to be,
claiming the earth is flat and green,
echoing the Blue Skyway.
With a dying moon where the river bends,
unlocking the solace letting the winter in,
now cataracts of heavy stones.
Where the frost writes laws on the grass,.
now only the lonely with wind in veins,
echoing the Blue Skyway.
