Another poem by Bjørn Aamodt

 

Nothing

Under a blue-grey evening sky the black hull

that we have spent five days loading reverses

out into the harbour basin, heels past the grain silo,

and rights itself in the sailing channel with a green light

on the starboard side. Nothing

the snowflakes say

that melt on the back of my warm hand. Nothing

the winter wind says in the empty harbour street,

and I feel the blood pounding

its way throught the body in its closed circuit.

And the snow

that unobtrusively knocks and says nothing.