It is still, and no air moves
Even the light cotton curtain
On this hot summer’s night
Here on the island.
There, through the open doors,
Are the stars of the Plough,
And they point to Polaris,
And Polaris is north.
North is home,
And green valleys,
And rain,
And oaks and ash, and storms
That shake great branches massed with leaves,
All singing and dancing in the sky.
The wind buffets its way
Round the old stone church
On the winding road to Weston.
And the tower stands among the trees,
For tall trees grow there
And move their heavy skirts of leaves
In a swirl of welcome breeze.