Andrew on Holy Island, Northumbria


by Andrew J. Müller

Dark clouds broil over the Roman Wall,
Still air shimmers,
Silent whispering winds,
Meander restlessly seeking someone,
To blow around,
In this empty wilderness.

Cattle low on the fields by the road,
Disturbed as one car,
Trundles past slowly,
Looking at the ancient ruined borderline,
Stretching across,
The dark, craggy slopes.

Castles break the skyline here and there,
Stark reminder of wild,
Times past,
When this land was taint with blood,
And sane men,
Did not come here lightly.

Does the wind carry the keen of Northumbrian pipes,
Skurl, and fife, and drum,
Their Celtic ancestry shown,
As sure as in any Scottish Glen,
Or Irish Lough,
But hidden in eerie quiet.

This land - this forgotten land is not English,
Nor Scots,
Nor a mixture of the two,
For this is Northumbria,
And it knows its own place,
Forever on the Border.

This poem appears alongside many others by Andrew in BeWrite Books's "Shaken and Stirred: Poetry from the Far Corners" published in 2002.

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