When the rain stopped I walked down the road;
there was hardly any traffic, so I kept going
until I was face to face with the O
of the Nappstraumtunnel.
No bridge to the other side. No ferry.
I looked at the map again;
some of the roads go under the sea,
some of the tunnels turn one-hundred and eighty degrees —
she meant ninety — the night before she left for Ramburg,
Inger Marie was telling me about the islands out west,
or south as the locals say.
Descending by a footpath where it’s forbidden to go,
I need to get to the other side. Lights flicker,
orange and black,
there’s a stack of giant propellers,
hanging upside down from the roof,
I’m caught in the tail-pipe spume
of a carbon monoxide river,
a strange inverted flow.
I tie a buff over my mouth — keep going,
down to a grotto with SOS emblazoned
on the side of a phone. A car blares its horn.
The Grendel-ribs weep and groan.
Trucks roar by with doppler rise and fall.
A van tries to smooth out a curve.
I hear the squeal of tyres.
Laurence O’Dwyer | Ada and Darko
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)