The sting of the wind
On this cold spring day
Reminds me of my
Ancestors who rode
This same wind
As they trudged to work
On early shift.

This connection, now, is
Deep, sunk in the blood,
In all that I mean
When I say these words
In tones that rhyme 

Words that would’ve
Carried meaning still
In those cold, hungry days
When this same old
Northern sky
Still pleased the eye of
Those infected with
The old disease of love.

And, in this frail copse
of tender green,
glimmering with dappled sunlight,
sunlight casts strange shadows over me.

Nesting birds fly
Over scattered poplar trees,
Over hawthorn bushes
Over these delicate blades of grass

In this place and time
A mottled moment’s respite
Is offered me
As I watch these birds
Swing high into this grey ghost-ridden
Sky.