Tip-toeing through the kitchen,
Bjorn is home from the Kringla.
Maze of moonless sky; I’m wrapped
in a sleeping bag — an hour he’ll sleep
before he’ll rise again, I pull a buff over my eyes;
in winter the earth tilts away from the sun
(it’s dark up here all the time —
a blue glow over the islands,
morktide or dead-time they call it)
in summer the earth tilts back again,
it’s daylight robbery
the way the sun tips its hat like a rake —
the punishment for burglary at night
is less severe — but what if it’s only dark
or only light — who knows then?
Never mind; Bjorn is stirring his coffee now.
I’m setting the table with leftovers from the bakery —
pastries, buns and jam,
pancakes he calls sverlerai—
how good the orange juice, the instant coffee,
butter melts on croissants;
he spreads a map over the cups and saucers,
he points at the bay of Kvalvika where two surfers
turned off their phones and wintered out,
riding the waves of the northern lights,
hauling junk from the village in their spare time,
building a hut from flotsam, jetsam, whatever they could find.
But the hut is empty now, it’s summer again,
you can sleep there for free if you want.
The last time I stayed,
there was pasta in the cupboard.
Laurence O’Dwyer | Himmeltinden
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)