The Spooking Call and the Plunging Dark

I have never been

alone in the North

at night and so far

from everything and everyone

that I could not hear the hum

of voices in my head

or the clang and whistle

of the iron way.

But I have been at the spot

where the sound of the whistling beast,

the steel and the weight of it,

was the spooking call,

the sound of the plunging dark;

where the honey-scented mortal thing

weaving through the sweet thorns,

beneath the clouded light of stars,

waved along by the wet-grass fairies,

is certain to arrive in the spying dawn

that whispers hints and rumors

and promises to fill

the heart’s desire

to be forever lost.

I have been there.

I have been there.

And I will go again.