It's a sore soul that cannot lay down tools

or use the Yule to its proper end; strong drink,

food. Five nights afore and the fires light no fretting

of hands at wool, no kneading of dough. No,

I but pretend at northern-islandness, an imagined

Viking kink in my cells. I inhabit this for a while,

alone. All being well. All not being well. It's time.

The earth feigns death and we too must learn

not-doing. The very baby unborn cries ‘oh dul! dul!’

and doesn't stop to wonder where it found its words.