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PER MARE PER TERRAM

Chant du monde boréal
Shoormal.
Sandshifter, 60N.
Where it all makes sense.

CHRONICLES FROM ARCANIA

Preamble

Through Chronicles from Arcania, I shall attempt to share walks with you, this poetics from 60N, where I feel at one with our Earth, my sense of place so maritime.


Friday, 30 July 2010

that area that neither belongs to the sea nor to the land...

They never said you could anchor.

This land is filled with ravens' nests,
forests of bells, here,
at your feet
so purple deep
no one dares touch
but archangels.

Don't turn your head back towards sea.

Afar, bonxies* feast on your fears 
in ravaged skies...
They call you "rogue",
wandering seed 
lost inside dusk;

Don't ask petrels for directions.

And when your eyes turn into rust,
raven claws snatch your will to smile -
tear to pieces light in iris, your fragile wings on your shloulders.

Let me gather all your feathers tarnished with red.

In Arcania, no cliff hanger;
we're free to love,
run inside waves that never sting
or burn our skin,
as we drown our tears 
in shallows. 

© Nat Hall 2010

4 comments:

  1. this is very evocative, Nat, I love the line about not asking petrels for directions!

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  2. I hear the call in my heart

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  3. Thanks, Juliet :-)
    Hmmm, that most recent visit to Mousa got tattooed in my heart! :-))

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  4. Thank you kindly, Doreen :)
    That area is really magic and so dynamic as both a habitat and source of continuous inspiration.

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