The Last Outposts (A Collection of Poems)
Pulling off the ferry there was stillness.
I absorbed it.
One gull cried, but far away.
Nothing else.
The smell of fish swallowed up the air;
Like a sauna, it singed the hairs of my nostrils.
I breathed it.
Cod was drying, the color of cardboard, on wooden racks.
And as stiff.
Two tied at the fins upside down,
They crackled like crumbling leaves, with one breath of the wind.We took the one lane of road from the pier to the end.
Saw moss eaten stone walls trailing to secret places at low tide.
Saw red, yellow and blue houses, Tall,
stacked boxes with windows,
scattered like seeds on the flat fingers of land.
The ones that had just been painted;
And the ones already beginning to peel;
An endless chore in salt air.
Saw between the houses, more fish.
Wooden poles resting on wooden poles.
Each fish, disfigured by slashes to his gut,
hanging shriveled.
Fish without heads, open to the ground.
Nine O'clock, still the sun was high, bright.
A yellow ball, blinding the sea from my eyes;
No distinction, night from day.
In the red house, a man flew a kite with his son.
A couple weeded their garden.
There was no one else.
The end of the road, we prepared spaghetti, tea,
Watched four sheep watch us.
They walked to the end of the island, then turn,
Lost from sight at the curve of the earth.
We were at the top of the curve then,
On an island that felt as thin as paper,
and as flat.
Close, close as one can get to sea level.
The wind is pushing,
Grabbing at the van, rocking us,
As if we never left the boat that brought us here.
Sea sick on dry land.
If it were dry.
But the sky has joined with the wind,
Sent itself in pieces to crash on the windows.
The wind moans;
Laughs as it presses through the cracks between metal and glass;
Wails, "Why are you here?"
An abandoned airstrip at the edge of a cliff,
At the edge of an ocean.
"Why are you here?"
Years ago it sent a twin engine to its death in the sea.
Now this place is a playground;
Drag strip for restless boys with Trans Ams,
Bored with the other ten kilometers this island has to offer.
But the real playground is out there,
On the cliffs.
On the muddy trails leading over that hill and the next.
There are Oyster Catchers out there, and gulls,
And somewhere, Puffins.
We could be on those cliffs,
We could be hiking the island of Vaeroy.
If it weren't being washed away;
If it weren't being pummeled by wind;
Becoming only rain stripped plates of fogged glass.
It doesn't matter that the earth is round,
You can still fall off.
Off a step, or a cliff,
Or up here,
Off the vertical.
One wrong foot hold,
Or none,
Could put me down there;
In the grave yard.
So small the tomb stones look now.
Little lines of sticky dots on waxed paper.
This is the way to Svolvaergeita.
The horns of the goat they call it.
Two rock teeth, gumless, skeletal,
Perched on a pillar, all perched on this mountain.
Almost kissing.
But if they were that would minimize the challenge -
Jumping between them.
There are two up there now.
Dare devils addressing the sky.
One blue and one red, specs against grey.
Balanced I watch. Gripping ground, looking up.
Or behind.
There, little houses, little cars,
Toy boats on the ocean,
Endless ocean, and snow caps.
But too long and my feet Lose trust in each other;
Too long and the rows of dots become real again.
We turned at the big rock under the bowl.
Too dangerous to go higher.
Too steep there.
The pillar and teeth were somewhere else,
We was too close to tell.
But up isn't hardest, down is.
Ten times, maybe twenty.
No arms, just four feet clinging to dirt,
Maintaining the center of gravity.
And down isn't fast.
Too many steps in a row and the knees,
stop guards, give way,
Take breaks when they wobble.
Don't look down at the grave yard.
The worst is over.
More courage, quicker feet.
The head stones rise fast.
Some of them big, bigger than I remember.
Some perhaps for those who let go of the Horns.
They say that a goat will eat anything.
