For too long have we stretched the bowstring of air.
All night we heard the menacing
grumble of engines
we brought in the wind.
Then it happened. The heap toppled
and layer after layer
pack after pack
the snow dogs tumble,
their howls flogging the fields,
the wind returns, the rubber wind
the night and darkness
the sky and memory.
Thus we are alone, stripped of the landscape,
the last remnant of air in our lungs
and an evil laugh on our lips.
Such an evil laugh.
Notes on this poem
Reproduced by permission of Bloodaxe Books.