Summer Sun In The North

The Sun believes he owns the place,

asserts himself at 10 pm,

having walked around to the Northwest.

He lands here nightly and lights it all:

a crazy blaze of clouds and sea,

rounded cliffs, a boreal wood.

Foreground and vista, this is his painting,

shining forth from a sidelong fire

in what was once dark winter sky.

It’s as if he had always been there hiding,

waiting to jump up in June, a fool,

and stick out his tongue at night.