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I stood at a Fjord in Norway once, and was struck by the blackness of the water...

The Fjord

Fdf5205c-8b5b-4da8-a6dc-63fe28d680a9by Billy J. Stewart07 Mar 2015

It was actually closer than I had thought.
I left the hotel, slipping furtively past the gatehouse, shuffling along some dark mountain road,
Then downhill, following the flow of the ditch, I mean,
Doing what water does.
Past wooden houses, wooden fences, wooden church and wooden shops.
Everything is still, no-one is about, except me that is.
And there it was.
It took me a little by surprise, when I found the edge,
Galloping over to it, curious as a cat on the scrounge.
I ascended the pier, and there I stood on the decking, king of the morning.
Taken aback by what was in front.
And you know, in gazing there, lost for a minute, it occurred to me,
It wasn’t so much dark, as black. Like Stout porter.
Just a little further out the water breathed a kind of mist,
The sort you might see in the newness of a sharp winter morning,
It was that cold.
And as I stood there, pulling my collar up, adjusting my scarf,
I could hear the deafening sound…of silence. Out there.
I closed my eyes for a few seconds, and on opening…
…The Norwegian pines furred up from the shore on the other side,
To the snow, which was half melting in the fleeting spring early sunshine,
The white glint catching my roving eye.
And I am alone, and yet, at peace,
In primeval oneness with this surface of mirrors,
Deep and mysterious and black as my own heart,
Here, at the fjord.