Last night I dreamt of your island,
where mountains shoot out of ocean.
Sogn og Fjordane,
where words harbour strange sounds –
brand new diphthongs
hooked on my tongue,
blues and greens of the fisherman.
And through the eye of iced dreamers,
I touched the stone polished by time,
taille de guêpe* fashioned by tides,
earthrides, fabric of all angels.
Now show me coverts on the shore.
taille de guêpe: in fashion, the perfect figure
© Nat Hall 2010