On last leaving Anchorage

(A northern pilgrim in springtime)

by Mark Arvid Fullerton

When April showers are memories
from another latitude,
And the chill of March softens into sleet;
Still, cold veins pulse subdued,
sterile as the black basalt mountains,
bleak as the cobalt harbour.
Though zephyrs may now give hints
of nearby oriental exhalations,
They do not stir us with their visitations.
The sun likewise keeps cool, all of,
Just now so newly restored to liberty.
And nature, relaxing rigid circumspection,
invites chilled hearts to flee
in a southerly direction.

(Dedicated to the poet’s parents, Keith and Viola Fullerton)