Winter’s teeth holds the North by her silver locks
Waiting to release her when the home-coming colours
Light the night sky.
Shelter grows from the blueing birches.
Comfort has fled the nest south
Readying for the next venture.
Raw bones of land claw back the hope
Of yet more time to stare with glassy orbs
Upon the birth of another dawn.
Northern stars cry their low serenades
Calling us back home to forest, shore
Glen, moss and moor.