The shape of a fisherman's face, a blasted red mask of ancient hope,
stonecold to his wife and child, but cradling a fish in his hands and
praying, like an Indian, to the spirit he has just taken.
Prehistoric bluffs cut into the land by the mighty clash —
a high buffer against the wash of lashing waves
and on the other side the half-moon shape of the softsand curving beach
becomes the pink cup that holds the sparkling sea.
And you know a kind hello always hides a blistering whisper.
I fall asleep at night gently rising and gently falling
with the moontide that guides the thin strands of my blood,
and I think of the uncountable spinning islands floating through a universe
long since hardened and splendidly ordered from its loose bubbled beginnings.
I am awakened by a slice of noise, a sparkly crack in the dark air.
I find that a gull, sneering, the most playful of all birds,
has dropped a cold hardclosed shell onto the warm sloping asphalt,
the shards now cutting deep into the soft wet pool of life inside.
by Lars Trodson