The window between
Sunrise and sunset shrinks,
And will soon be blown to smithereens
By the southwestern winds:
The man-eating storms.

As days become steeped in night we fear
No fictional vampires, but the real,
Crushing blow dealt
From the beckoning hand that uses
Slippery fish as bait. We go,
Shoulders raised towards the ears,

And head west. In the water-filled
Graves of our fathers we gather
Food to sustain the living.
The salt and gale leave prisoner’s lines
Along our eyes – one for each day;
Give us one more day. We tug
With bulging veins to slip silver
From the skeletons’ hands:

That legion, that ever-growing legion,
Scratching at the hulls. Their hair
Flows around our oars, their voice
Is carried by the waves.
Having held us at birth, they know
Our names, they call and ask
If our son is ready to be a man,
Like we were, at twelve,

And if we could bring the priest next time;
His holy water is but a drop
In the Norwegian Sea. They laugh
And lay the festive tables
For the season. Many friends,
Many relatives are invited.
To catch up, they say, and “tit for tat”.

This cathedral window view of a sunset
Is stunning in its beauty.
No stele can be more moving
Than our proud mountains.
These seagulls sing
A requiem for someone
Dear not yet departed.

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