Norwegian Sunrest
Long, summer days I’ve spent on Vega, English 206
watching the cold northern sun sap
the greens from fresh grown fields and reds from gleaming
barns, as it rode low along the silver
curve of the sky, skimming the horizon
above a landscape struck pallid under
its arctic scrutiny. There was a peace.
A silence. A stillness that would never suffer to end
─only to be interrupted, by the
rumbling snore of Grandfather, who’d lie
belly up on the couch of the other room,
or a chilling wail as winds wound against
some loosened tiles of the roof, or the inner
grind and crunch of a carrot, conducting the formless,
mirthless passage of time as it waved from the side
of my mouth. Long I’ve waited, peering out
into those chilly summer days, slouching
into the padded warmth of my chair and hoping,
straining to hear the dry crackle of stones
beneath my cousin’s wheels or the booming voice
of my uncle singing songs of old. I’ve itched
for the subtle delight of potatoes covered over
with melted butter, or the smell of Mamma’s
fresh baked bread. I’ve leaned into the futile
heat of a rusted furnace, fueled by old
and yellowing newspaper, and thought to go,
to walk amongst the crisscrossing shadows and piercing
screams of meowing, yelping seagulls; to wander
amongst the rows of bushes laden with berries
green and unripened; or to explore the ruins
of our old family farm; of tractors
and farm equipment, languishing corpses of rusted
scrap; of neglected fences and fields, yearning
for Grandfather’s attention; of a creaking
barn and empty cow berths, whose beams had once
supported great bales of hay, but now
stand as mainstays for a complex of aged
cobwebs. But I’ve ducked the past and waited,
brushing my feet against the grim and grimy
floor, and watching for the sun’s descent
into a slow, reluctant explosion, rich
with brilliant color, which courses through the young
and flowing clouds of the west as it dips below
the sea for but the briefest hour’s rest.
watching the cold northern sun sap
the greens from fresh grown fields and reds from gleaming
barns, as it rode low along the silver
curve of the sky, skimming the horizon
above a landscape struck pallid under
its arctic scrutiny. There was a peace.
A silence. A stillness that would never suffer to end
─only to be interrupted, by the
rumbling snore of Grandfather, who’d lie
belly up on the couch of the other room,
or a chilling wail as winds wound against
some loosened tiles of the roof, or the inner
grind and crunch of a carrot, conducting the formless,
mirthless passage of time as it waved from the side
of my mouth. Long I’ve waited, peering out
into those chilly summer days, slouching
into the padded warmth of my chair and hoping,
straining to hear the dry crackle of stones
beneath my cousin’s wheels or the booming voice
of my uncle singing songs of old. I’ve itched
for the subtle delight of potatoes covered over
with melted butter, or the smell of Mamma’s
fresh baked bread. I’ve leaned into the futile
heat of a rusted furnace, fueled by old
and yellowing newspaper, and thought to go,
to walk amongst the crisscrossing shadows and piercing
screams of meowing, yelping seagulls; to wander
amongst the rows of bushes laden with berries
green and unripened; or to explore the ruins
of our old family farm; of tractors
and farm equipment, languishing corpses of rusted
scrap; of neglected fences and fields, yearning
for Grandfather’s attention; of a creaking
barn and empty cow berths, whose beams had once
supported great bales of hay, but now
stand as mainstays for a complex of aged
cobwebs. But I’ve ducked the past and waited,
brushing my feet against the grim and grimy
floor, and watching for the sun’s descent
into a slow, reluctant explosion, rich
with brilliant color, which courses through the young
and flowing clouds of the west as it dips below
the sea for but the briefest hour’s rest.