Poem 68: Wolf Wind

running now
in my natural part
sharply warm and listening,
shall it die me to this land
with its shielding night
of dark and dawn
and northern flame
now settling
in rook and scar
by sweeping hill
cold winter clear
and sharpening
given now to wires
of high and silent whip
on rounded trees
now planting
by rails that bind
the rivers way
to the factory soul
now chaining
as a shackle on the run
of mouth tongue reds,
grey claw tail and padding
over snow shod paths
black silvered white
in silent weal
now vastly dressing
the lakeland hedge
in rimless eye
and callow humor watching
the trying of the elder paw
to lay the moon
with your next towns brass
and failing
in your natural part
to find my freedom
in the forest winds
and curb
your smoke filled growing.