New Found Land

Play

Last night I dreamed of Newfoundland,

the sky red gold above the setting sun,

slashed with purple shadow deeper

than the sea. As I passed, the trees

caught fire and cast a sylvan light upon

the waves like royal jewels and all

along the shore, the water amber gold.

I wonder now if Robert Frost

had walked upon these rocky twisting shores

and if his thoughts of fire and ice

were born from standing in the sea.

My feet are sculpted white against the rock

while playful pools of molten light

fire blazing cold that takes my breath away.

With beauty borne in fluid grace,

the North Atlantic wraps a shrouding mist

around the halo of the sun

and guides the longboats to the shore,

cold and shimmering on the ocean face.

My breath returns in crystal song,

a gift to guide the sailors from the sea.

 

I cannot help you fight the fire.

The sea will come again to claim the blood

upon the shore. The price is high

but like the tide it ebbs and flows

and always catches people unaware.

Like August wind, it carries low

and drifting ashes claim their sepulchre.

The sun is down. The dogs are loose.

A grisled Irish keeper holds the ground.

In garments tattered gray with dusk,

he scours the shadows in the wood

for waking landvættir from ancient realms

that to this island still belong,

alive in amber dreams of Newfoundland.

 

© 2011 by Alexandra Lucas. All rights reservedx

Photo: Grampymoose on Flickr


Leave a Reply