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Leaves flee their trees. Gold coins strewn across
woodland paths turn black, rain-smashed to dross.
Silver birches ciliate tips outside my window
incised against the sky like intaglio.
Bohemian waxwings rise in flocks, take flight
maple leaves mottled by black-spotted blight.
Bone-white horizon, a full setting moon;
bone-white the sun rising into the brume.
I am worried, curious: the coming chill
mythic, drear augury of a world... gone still.
Here, in Finland, we ululate the weather: alavilla
mailla hallan vaaraa ('in the lowlands, there is
the danger of night-frost')
I love this Finnish language, unlike any other:
affricative Ts, uvular Ks, sibilants and trills,
all letters equal, first syllable takes
|Poems © 2005
Norbert Hirschhorn. Original photographs © 2005
Page, picture and graphics realisation © 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 Sally Crawford.
All rights reserved.