WAITING TO CROSS A FJORD Poem by Robin Fulton

Birches and pines have come down their long slopes.
They are squat and hazy. They swell and shrink.

Underwater stones are too visible.
They don´t give a hint of sunless valleys.

Rain. Small rings hurry into each other.
There are so many of them they die young.

There is much of life in a backwater.
From here the wide fjord surface is opaque

as stone. An assurance. Sea-level is
the safest of places, height- and depth-free.

The ferry rounds a point. Prow and stern high,
a slice of melon shape balancing like

a junk or miniature idea of junk
in an old print, undaunted by ink waves.

I am daunted now, here at sea-level
for the opaque surface turns translucent

and sunlight can be seen losing itself.
The unseen valleys are truly sunless.

Time that has been running and running stops.
Birches and pines have loped to their true heights.