We steal north
where peaks are crag and caved
and folk are sketched
with sharpened pencils.

Here rheumatic trees
have spindled pointed knees
and blue noses poke
unseasonal blasted clouds.

Sounds hang sharp
shriek pierce and blow
holes in limestoned earth
invoking snow.

They beckon me in
and back I itch to scratch
a path – thin and poor
but these are peaks I know.