Dawn comes slowly to the Northland.

Star, weak as the blind eye of innocence,

Retreat cringing into self-effacement

Before the pride and the power of the day.

Hands slipping from the horizon rim,

Night drops before the relentless force

Of the sun rising to accept homage

In the almost-silence of forest and city.

Change comes slowly to the Northland.

A faint snow-whisper of winter coming

Where the touch of the cold-steel air

Signals a tension re-emerging.

Hermann’s war-men are stirring in the dust,

Shaking off the sleep of years,

Feeling for bruises, flexing stiff muscles,

And reaching for their fallen swords.

Tom Malcolm