Friday, November 03, 2006

Lofoten

August sun waltzes on the dance floors of every horizon.
You can’t hear the cod band, but you sense it—
in the unpredictable fog machine and the twirling maelstrom.

At night, the moon is a shattered disco ball, seagulls
attracted to it like moths to the porch light—
always on, always expecting an absolute dark.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Thanks for the memory!

H. W. Alexy said...

Heh, it was a good memory, wasn't it?

Helm.

Paula said...

Lovely evocation of wonderful moments.

Rus Bowden said...

Hi Helm,

Terrific little poem! Thanks for the memory.