Cannot go into that Orkney tomb
to sit with bones of the clan
this wintering night when northern world
bows its head away from the sun,
Gawain on the block to the Green Knight's stroke,
the nick of time's forgiving,
as the lumbering ox-cart turns, locked
in her track, in the deep-pooled mud-ruts,
on the gravel bottom of a gravity
along that buried road,
nor be born again in dazzling light,
dawn sun transfixion perfectly aligned,
by midwiving tomb-builders
inciting one sitting of ghost-dreams bereft.
No,
this solstice summary will seek no bliss,
lacking the simpler solace of your kiss.
....