North

John Bjarne Grover

These nordic winter days are all too short.
The sun moves from my table to my bed,
and then the sun's last silken rays are shed
over the shimmering rooftops and the port.

I sit here with a cup of sweetened tea
and stir it slowly with a silver spoon.
The room grows dim, and now the crescent moon
is climbing high above the darkening sea.

These nordic winter nights are all too cold
as they infuse their frost into my pen.
Tomorrow, with the sun, I'll rise again
to watch this silver sea turn into gold.








I wrote this poem in probably 1993 or 1994 if not earlier. See the article 'Andrea della Robbia. (There may have been 'far too cold' for 'all too cold' in the original version).

© John Bjarne Grover
On the web 15 october 2020