PICKINGS

Poetry from NHI publications

THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
Sometimes when our day ended as it began, For northern lights, Aurora borealis, Originally the northern dawn. Yet one dawn is disparate from the other In more than the day's dial's measure. While dawn awakened us to few hopes, Northern lights are benedictions, Glowing in the low north, Usually in late summer, sometimes barely an aura, But other times they are more Blessing our vision beyond seeing. Once on an evening already memorable, We rode back from late-loved mountains, Friends and cousins, all worn out; Until we stopped, to watch, to gaze, To wonder in awe at the unveiled sky; A pageant unfolding in the distant north. Pale yellow, then red, into green and blue, Long curtains of light parting and joining, Rippled across the horizon in folds As clearly defined as those of a theatre, But never static in form or field. The forms of canyons and chasms grew greater Until they seemed to have crossed the plateau Where most of our homes and farms lay dark. We prayed aloud with our eyes open, Thanked God in ecstatic seeing, Our hearts' grasping, and asked again Of Aurora's maker Tithonus' boon, without his error. The lights grew dimmer, receded again; We drove on north where the last color flickered, The last light curtain closed.
JAMES H. TROTT

THE NORTHERN LIGHTS

Sometimes when our day ended as it began,
For northern lights, Aurora borealis,
Originally the northern dawn.
Yet one dawn is disparate from the other
In more than the day's dial's measure.
While dawn awakened us to few hopes,
Northern lights are benedictions,
Glowing in the low north,
Usually in late summer, sometimes barely an aura,
But other times they are more
Blessing our vision beyond seeing.
Once on an evening already memorable,
We rode back from late-loved mountains,
Friends and cousins, all worn out;
Until we stopped, to watch, to gaze,
To wonder in awe at the unveiled sky;
A pageant unfolding in the distant north.
Pale yellow, then red, into green and blue,
Long curtains of light parting and joining,
Rippled across the horizon in folds
As clearly defined as those of a theatre,
But never static in form or field.
The forms of canyons and chasms grew greater
Until they seemed to have crossed the plateau
Where most of our homes and farms lay dark.
We prayed aloud with our eyes open,
Thanked God in ecstatic seeing,
Our hearts' grasping, and asked again
Of Aurora's maker Tithonus' boon, without his error.
The lights grew dimmer, receded again;
We drove on north where the last color flickered,
The last light curtain closed.

JAMES H. TROTT

from
The Big Lights
ISBN 0 903610 08 6

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This page last updated: 28th December 2006.