As years pass he increases his anxiety
as years pass he turns further and further north
towards the winters
and carried on an ordinary wheelbarrow
he is taken one evening to the realm of the dead
just beneath the northern lights.
Who – says the dead man – touched my hand?
My child it was I
And they continue
to the point
where they exchange places
and Aurora lies down in the wheelbarrow
and the dead man goes off to the horizon.
On such evenings
it goes without saying
the northern lights gleam extra bright.