The Fjord in Winter
Getting lost’s the best thing I’ve done, stranded
waist-deep in a fjord at the top of the world,
where rain’s pinpricks and scraping gales
meet a gull swooping past a judder of bulldozers
because one day they’ll have a sewer here,
and now I see one way’s no worse than another.
How we used to think we’d track time with a rope
tie a knot to plot each minute, and never, ever fray.
Let’s stop here where the rain cuts
holes through the fjord’s face, the light’s blunt,
the undercurrent’s open to song, slung deep,
as the gull gasps at minuscule crumbs flung out
on flat water. Why not let that gull write our new religion?
We can spend our mornings swooping, cackling,
and then feather our brains out of thought.