Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Another poem by Bjørn Aamodt


Under a blue-grey evening sky the black hull
that we have spent five days loading reverses
out into the harbour basin, heels past the grain silo,

and rights itself in the sailing channel with a green light
on the starboard side. Nothing
the snowflakes say

that melt on the back of my warm hand. Nothing
the winter wind says in the empty harbour street,
and I feel the blood pounding

its way throught the body in its closed circuit.
And the snow
that unobtrusively knocks and says nothing.

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