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.
Sunset Photo by Grampymoose on Flickr
Island Photo by Ray Fragapane on Unsplash