North

There is no incline,
but a defined feeling of moving upwards,
to the north.
The buildings recede,
And the horizon sits heavy on my eye lids.
The long concrete, spread out in front.
Grills eating up
eyes and white,
reservations and bypass,
cables and telephone masts.
North I ride, the signs are at my side.
Back to the last bye.
Shoulders to the last, northern lungs in grasp.
Family of mine, sweet to find,
tendered to another kind.
Right moving round.
Time be sound, North being found.