Poem of the North

Fifty years of the Northern Poetry Library

From Canto 2


Dear reader, what we are recording
is a diaspora, not an empire.
We go deep as well as wide; sing
songs of our ancestors, divided
no more into damned and saved.
The calendar of our flesh crimsons
our reiver names, forges a chain.
River’s a mirror, the land inside us.

Our plot of earth is a borrowed book
begun in sunshine, finished in hail.

Blood.   Breath.   How light cascades.

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