Late November. It is morning.
My daughter and I drive through the soaring
Snow outside of the town
In the white and opened ground
Past the fields’ fallow larches.
Surrounded we are mostly lost.
On the road winds criss-cross.
Pale moss glosses glass.
Mennonite horses pass.
I steer behind their tick-tock marches.
Girl, time pulls and unconsoles.
It whips your glowing neck, the cold.
It falls so soon, so soon.
It will ruin.
My daughter, through it the car charges.
Isle of Hoy 