Fargo

On a winter’s morning in Fargo the air is thin and rangy,
The freeway lights flash like a row of white oaks in a blur.
Above the flatlands a pale blue sky, the sun a shy, grieving bell,
And the wind whistles through the very hollow of the prairie’s heart.

The town itself is quiet, ragged little streets are strewn
With snow‑drops that coat the old brick, and the old grain elevators
Stand like sentinels, looking out over fields now left in frost.

A black lorry waits by the western diner, its horn a faint curse,
While teenagers in varsity jackets, briskly scrolling phone‑screens,
Savour a stale cheese biscuit and a cup of bitter tea.

In the mirror of this northern place, a dyke of loneliness,
But you catch a glimmer of hope that even in the longest night
The northern lights will swirl on, quiet and pale, and the future will bloom.