True North

This wind, even southerly,
in a stern grandfather;
sea-bent and weathered,
he yields to no man.

For this is True North,
where herring gulls stand sentry
over castles and bones
and foam whose face
has shaved the land
since time.

Top o’ the compass,
heart of the nation,
this is the point
you meet your match.

It’s in the passing crack
of fishermen whose nets,
handknotted, are blessed
with food for the hungry,
the timely, the lucky.

Over bellpits and saltpans
we clasp our hands
to fire up the blood
that powered a country,
that dug up the coal,
that shaped the ships,
that forged the rails,
that invented the engines,
that made the trains,
that riveted bridges
from our ironclad hills.

The same hands now open
to hold yours in them,
solid and warm,
real and firm.

True North.

Harry Gallagher

A quote from this poem can be seen on this mural in Forum Books, Alnwick.