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| Stabburet, farmhouse in Feios, 1966 |
The raised storehouse
The storehouse at the top of the ridge holds a town
in position between the corner stones. It is night
and the lights from the highrise buildings and railway station
are stretched out like a film screen under the wooden floor.
A yellow ambulance moves along with flashing
howls, a hen party in the park is suffering from collective
hiccups, the traffic lights change sides, as always, and the planes
graze the storehouse steps before ending on the scrapheap.
In former times the outdoor storehouse was the guarantee
of life after darkness fell. Throughout the long
winters the cook fetched red hams, brown potatoes
and green apples, the mice tried in vain to leap
over the storehouse gap. This building could feed five thousand
if people were in need, in spring its shelves were empty. Life
had been victorious yet again, the walls took a breather
before the next autumn, now the empty larder overrides
the idea that the newly raised town lives its own life
between the motorways and the fashion industry. I pause
to look at the pitch-black edifice which soon will rock
to its foundations. In a while the earth will rise once more.
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