Saturday, 26 April 2014
Eyes shut to the yellow-grey glow
above the icy, new-born land,
I feel the sea mist rise up from the South.
One tin hut below us
- the only sign of our print upon the land.
Fyll encircle the cliff, returning to colonial nests
in a cacophony of guttural cries;
ownership and instinct.
The rain has made the lichen seem brand new;
wet orange paint on old, decaying wood.
The smell of thyme fills the air
and I find arctic river beauty;
spongy and filled with light.
Stillness takes hold, delicately,
and words are lost to the North Atlantic breeze
that carries a perfect skein of Heidagaes
above this folkloric cliff.