From Great Lone Hills
The gales of centuries gone blow through the pines —
Inivisible the wind itself — blow through
The clouds of boughs and needles. Darkness shines
Instead of beauty. Here no god-like blue
Can be perceived. No prophet will improve
The destiny implied. A Viking ship
Of war must heave up from this and remove
All hope. Horizons blacken and then tip
Away to death or worse. These winds will not
Die, ever. Harsh green trees will come and go
So slowly that religions we forgot
Will leave no trace inside the ice and snow
That melt away and leave instead this wind
And darkness merged, this wind and darkness twinned.
~ Phillip Whidden