Up beside the Dalton Highway, in the land of midnight sun;
endless day no longer with us, for the summer's race is run.
Now a hundred miles from Coldfoot, camping out by Galbraith Lake,
thawing bones at fireside vigil; brewing tea, our thirst to slake.
Flames grow brighter as the darkness drapes its cloak upon the gloaming;
in the distance, tiny headlights; caribou and foxes roaming.
Looking northwards, over Deadhorse, wondrous visions fill the skies;
images obscured by daylight treat our dark-accustomed eyes.
Petty-dancers, cloaked in raiment— yellow, crimson, mauve and green;
luminescent clouds are swirling, giving off a lustrous sheen.
In my mind, a story forming— choreographer, the sun;
through a hole in its corona, particles are on the run.
Urged by solar wind they travel, 'til they find our planet's poles;
atmospheric penetration, fostered by magnetic holes.
Particles collide with atoms, high up in the thermosphere;
photons so released enthrall us, when the air is crisp and clear.
There, surrounded by the tundra, lost in awe at nature's power;
burning logs reduce to ashes, as we quite forget the hour.
But, it's late, and we've more travel, off to bed we must now go;
grateful for our night of wonder, by these mountains capped with snow.
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Author Notes
petty-dancers (n.) the aurora borealis; the northern lights.
I have never seen the aurora, and my only Alaskan experience to date lasted two hours, and didn't take me out of the airport terminal. This is just my imagination telling me about my next visit. Many thanks for reading.
My much-treasured Christmas present for 2017 is a book by Paul Anthony Jones: "The cabinet of linguistic curiosities". Each page contains a descriptive story about some obscure or archaic word. It occurred to me it would be a fun exercise to try and write, each day, a poem featuring the "word of the day" from the book.
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