The Corner



A frozen steeple cock announced the place –

A town like any other on that coast:

The rusty docks, inert, insoluble,

Real estate booming, tech at full sail,

And a hitching post fit to menace drunks.


Our headlights fished those avenues in vain,

But sometimes sweeping past a fence would silver

Stands of birch, or fade against the flanks

Of enormous forests, white pine and red,

Tall as ships dwarfing shipwrecked Puritans.


Later, on the Old Post Road, we picked up

An AM station like a living flame,

A sanctuary light that hosted centuries.

Then a horn blast made the valleys tremble,

The dry flats and graveyards of New England –


You’ll hear the trumpet sound

To wake the nations underground;

Look in my God’s right hand

When the stars begin to fall!

— This poem appears in the January 23 print edition of National Review.

Members of the National Review editorial and operational teams are included under the umbrella “NR Staff.”

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