The Plough from the South.

It is still, and no air moves

Even the light cotton curtain

On this hot summer’s night.

There are the stars of the Plough,

And they point to Polaris,

And Polaris is north.

North is home,

And green valleys,

And rain,

And oaks and ash, and storms

That shake great branches massed with leaves,

All singing and dancing in the sky.

The wind buffets its way

Round the old church tower

On the winding road to Weston,

As it stands among the trees,

For high trees grow there

And move their heavy skirts of leaves

In a swirl of welcome breeze.