67º 52’ N (A Song of Å)
The music of the maelstrom is a mirror.
Reflected in a glassy oval flattened into the sea
by whirling currents and savage tides,
Helle-bound peaks sing a jagged profile
in the slow Nordland twilight.
Standing waves, the lands of our forebears
flow into the sea, crest upon crest,
each cape jutting behind and past
the one that came before
until the tune is lost in the gathering fog.
But turn around and always there is a new melody
rising raw and pink as the sky at dawn—
the cry of a lone kittiwake, the plaintive chant
of a Lofoten gale through rigging, the dull
pulse of a diesel engine from beyond the headland.