F O T O, poems 51 - 60
Martingården, at Nybyn, Överkalix |
[Image source: https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Tourism-g800223-Overkalix_Norrbotten_County-Vacations.html]
51. (Sparkstötting, cartwheels, anchor ― Överkalix)
The
last generation of the old kit
is
lovely decaying among the flowers.
Peasant
— aristocrat. Against much logic
the
trace of your famished life fed my eyes.
52.
(In the cafe/junkshop, Överkalix ― for Rachel)
Drawers
striped with dust, old annuals, kettles, handles;
a
tea-mist forms, but you’d brighten it Rachel,
you
who quarry the auction browns with warm eyes,
no
sentiment of loss. Everything’s up for renewal.
53.
(On the drive south)
The
stitches out, 600 miles of rain, our last wee-halt
in the
woods that smell of humus, then Utanede by midnight.
Back
seat dark, still warm. Dad’s hand on the wheel,
plump
with bandages, roosts... no. ― is bright and alert.
54.
(Brushing my teeth in the garden)
Dawn
sat in the ghost-farm; perhaps took coffee...
Shadows
have pates now: flowers inch open.
An
insect whirrs at the grille. Peeking out,
the
aspen is glittering. I stumbled into the sun.
55.
(Mum in the hammock)
For
two minutes and a photograph
you
put your feet up. Green morning sunshine.
For
eight seconds you gazed across the valley,
swaying
between a birch and pine, wishing nothing.
56. (Långfil)
Corner
snipped, the carton pumped in my hand,
&
the fil flopped into itself in the
bowl.
So
lovely and white, my spoon hovered,
a
bather on the brink. Then I dogged it all.
57.
(Dad chopping kindling)
You’ve
thought of it all week, the treacherous block
where
the axe clanged and split your hand.
Now
you have to go back. To do what you dreamt, in shock,
in the
muddle of blood: be calm and it’s gone, you rewind...
58.
(Sickling the garden)
The
hip-high grass, the wineglass bellflowers
toppled,
strewn hither and thither. A rake rasps
bouncing
on the cellar slopes. They drank their saft
and
swished, from the rust-red walls, stray wisps...
59.
(Eyes closed in hammock)
The
sun lurches, and the ground tilts, the red cottage;
you
shove off, and go sleeping on the wing.
Under
your eyelids, the day broadens.
Deep
in your shadows, how loud the birds sing!
60.
(Sawing logs)
Chock.
I wiped the saw with a clout of grass,
its
hot teeth resiny. Racked in the shed, all mine:
so
long may I read and dance, so many winter days!
(But
their records go on playing: sap, sweat, rain...)
*
Back-story. 51-53. The road trip ends, with a day of driving through steady rain. Brief stop for coffee and a loppis at Överkalix in Norrbotten.
53, 57. While L. and I were cycling round Abisko (37 - 50), my dad was at a hospital in Kiruna having the stitches taken out of his hand, following a recent accident with an axe.
54. Waking up in the morning at the summer cottage in Utanede, last seen in Poem 2. This is the locale for the rest of the sequence. Fine weather suddenly, after a very wet summer. Time for the outdoor chores (57, 58, 60).
54. The ghost-farm. An abandoned building on the fringe of the village, hence higher up the slope of the river valley and catching the morning sun earlier. The rural villages of Jämtland (like rural areas elsewhere) are reduced in population; empty buildings are commonplace.
56. Långfil. A regional variety of fermented milk with added butterwort, which gives it a ropy texture (hence "long fil").
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