Traveller’s tale
There are snowless winter days when the sea
seems
akin to mountainous regions, crouching in
grey plumage,
a brief instant blue, long hours with waves
like pale
lynxes, clawing in vain at the shore’s
gravel.
On such a day wrecks may well leave the sea
and seek
their shipowners, ensconced in the city’s
noise, and drowned
crews blow landwards, thinner than pipe
smoke.
(In the north the real lynxes roam, with
sharpened claws
and dreaming eyes. In the north where the
day
lives in a pit both day and night.
Where the sole survivor can sit by the
oven of the northern lights and listen
to the music of those frozen to death.)
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