The North Wind
There is no sun in Hoya.
Black slate roofs reflect
The lack of light
As the place slowly fades
In wet gloom.
I sit alone in our empty room
Staring down at the rows of dark rooftops
As the glass turns to a mirror of the interior
Until I’m staring at myself.
What I see leads me like a thread
To a woman I met from a northern isle
Whose craggy shores match
Her angular face.
In the winter her house
Groans like a sick cow,
Only when the north wind blows.
My eyes are tired and I wonder
Do the clouds get tired too
As they pour out their soft tears
On the black slate roofs.
The threads seem unraveled
And the world as we know it
Askew and moaning from
The bitter north wind blowing.
