Poem of the North

Fifty years of the Northern Poetry Library

From Canto 2


I drive north     as long as the light
and the land last    alone I walk
the seaweed line    testing my strength
against the pull    of moon and tide
I take pictures    of no-one, perched
on a wet rock    riddle shingle
through fingers    for the stone I’ll know
is a gift    like this book, borrowed

so I may say    oystercatcher
to the wading birds    I’ll breathe in

till my ribs crack   like razor-shells

View poem in Canto