Frozen thorn,
grey north, white hill.
Winter binds
reeds, rivers. Everything
holds still.
Who has returned
in the bitter weather
to the place of birth?
The fire burned
here. Under the frozen earth
and the white frost,
this was the hearth.
Of all the lost
children I was chosen
to return. No choice
of mine! I chose to sing.
The lark’s part,
the bard’s. The wing,
the voice, must sink, be still.
Lark to the earth,
I to the hearth
under the cold hill.
I was not born noble
but a bondsman
bound to the land.
Hold still. Hold still.
Winter wind
binds eye, binds hand.
Who will remember?
A place of birth,
a place of marriages,
the household of summer.
Who will praise
the work, the kindness,
the full table,
the hearth of stone?
In the cold days
of the end of December
in dead Rheged
I stand alone.
Winter wind
binds hand, binds tongue.
The songs are sung.
No fires burn.
Yet I return
to the winter land
having chosen
the heavy art,
the bond of thing,
of stone, of earth.
I am bound to stand
under the frozen
thorn, by the cold
hearth, and sing.