Here
tales conceive and become,
Like
the eels in the slate waters
There
are rough silent watchers
in
the insides of hills
The
ache of north is in the sleet
The
giant thews of basalt
The
Skerries are the Ocean's
teeth
torn up by the roots
Their
wind skins you all night
This
is the cape of cloud,
Frontier
of ice
Motion
me back
I
am one of this tribe
I
have writing to make
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