Up here it is more temporary; the
Sun has already turned.
In six months, the only light will be
That of the snow piercing through the
Darkness of a
23 hour night.

Words such as swimming and
Barbecue have the same taste as the
Cardboard of the box you are provided
With when being told to
Clear out your desk immediately.
And the winds pick up from

Closer to north with promises of
Ice cold rain in them.
Then just ice.
I fear not bullet nor blade, but look
Down and shiver at the thought of having
A brief, bad summer

Such as this.
I spent a week on Helene's parents'
Boat in the fjords, fishing and eating
Cod still wet with salt water, but yet;
The skies were grey; the breezes
Ungentle; unsoothing.

But I read. I wrote. Saw viking sites
Where the ground still
Smells of sacrificial blood and
Mead, and there
I shrugged the disappointment off as I
Closed my eyes and imagined paddle

Sounds and Norse grunts from a
Thousand years ago; rugged
Travellers returning after months at sea
Under a fierce foreign sun, finally home.
Thinking nothing at all
Of the weather.