This week’s poem inspired by a long-weekend visit to Norway, Kristiansand, Stavanger and nearby Ålgard, and including lots of time spent walking, climbing, driving, sailing in the stunning landscape.

Autumn in Ålgard

Time written in colours;

rocks, trees, grass, autumn

enlivens cool greens of summer’s growth,

last extravagance before winter white.

Foliage transformed to yellow,

orange, brown, black, gold,

hidden-away glamour of lichens transferred

to full-scale hillsides in ochre, umber.

Pallet of an artist obsessed with sunlight and overripe berries

History written in rocks;

movement of tectonic plates,

flow of glaciers, rush of rivers, pounding of water.

Smash of boulder against resounding rock,

squeeze of roots in fissures,

decay of matter, swell and burst of seeds,

metallic tinkle of ice forming on cliffs.

Split, shift, shiver of inorganic geography.

Playground of a block-piling, toppling, tossing toddler

Life written in water;

a sweating body, wet soil,

leaves, bogs, marshes soak and seep.

Trickling rills, puddles, streams

Sounds of invisible rustling under leaves.

Waterfalls, lakes, rivers, fjords and far away

over rocky mountain-heads, the sea,

the ocean, eternity.

Dreams of an ancient, ever-thirsty planet.

Ålgard, Norway, 2016

This week’s poem inspired by all the talk of time passing that seems to accompany significant birthdays.

Time (2)

Groan and complain

of the onrush of time,

merciless marching of months.

Days that flash past,

clocks tick too fast,

fatality waits at the end.

Recall all that happened,

insignificant, grand;

adventures, travels and friends.

No day makes its way

to the abyss ahead

without offering its hours to be filled.

Nyborg 2016

It has become a personal tradition to write a poem every year for my birthday. This year I turn 50, at a time of enormous changes and challenges. Still I face the future with optimism and a belief in those underlying truths which are the base on which I build my life.

Fifty in October

Wind has woken, whispers chill warnings,

shakes green from foliage, from fronds.

Trees turn from her icy temper, turn inward,

let summer leaves fade to yellow, to brown,

blown, starved in favor of future buds,

to cold ground.

A start to the end, an ending

Clears paths to future starts, nests fall

but only dry eggshells recall days of rebirth,

cycling, recycling pasts, futures laid down

with death, decay, after fading away

in wet ground.

A tree tall at peak of life;

autumn can change, tear leaves,

wind can bend and break branches

but roots run deep, gold-crowned

splendidly steadfast, unshakable

in loamy ground.

Nyborg 2016

This week’s poem, a reflection on interactions, conversations and reactions, all the things unsaid but still understood.

Tone

Even in an unfamiliar tune

You pick out the false note

Nyborg 2016

This week’s poem about returning to live in Denmark after several lifetimes lived in other parts of the world. The amazing levels of trust in this society, the obvious feeling of security people have, are an enormous contrast to the locked doors, the high walls, the barred windows I have grown used to over many years. I can’t help staring…

Ghost

Can’t help staring, slyly watching

how they interact, anticipating dinner,

changing channels, sliced by window blinds

they gather around tasteful furniture.

Television gives a ghostly glow

between open curtains, movement,

life and smells of frying fish.

Out here the streets is quiet.

Unobserved, I observe behind glass

people alone, people in groups,

movement in back rooms, calling and clutter,

cat in the window, one chair out of place.

Preparing their evening meal,

heads bent over steaming stoves,

stirring smells of dinner into evening air,

lifting lids to poke boiling potatoes.

Nordic lamps, designer sofas,

bright paintings splashed on white walls,

elegantly shaped plants, exotic knick-knacks

artistically arranged to signaling places they’ve been.

A chair pushed back by a gaping terrace door,

curtains fallen on rooms full of golden light,

candles lit, although it’s still early.

Early for a ghost to be walking the streets.

Nyborg 2016