The North

There is an urgent calling in the middle of the night,

That the north still owns my soul.

It is like the growling of a pack of restless, wild dogs.

It plucks me from tender sleep,

To a nightmarish land

Defined by isolation and the peculiar characters

The stillness draws.

Babies cry,

Wind howls,

And we are separated

By shifting, shattering ice,

And blowing storms.

I batten down the hatches of my mind,

To weather out the worst of it.

My spirit takes on the edge of survival.

I feel the frost-bitten burn of desperation.

Children cower,

Wolves circle,

Enter in the dark of a midwinter's day.

The north holds me in its frozen jowls,

And I can never slip away.