arrival, again

Went to the sea last night, first act after landing,

And came to the water’s edge (alone and without seeing, across the wide berth of the shore), stumbling upon it nearly with the strips of washed-up tang

And felt the sting of very cold water swirling at my ankles and the bite of running on the sand

And the air warmer than the sea (for it is late winter)

And at the brink of the waves, the dissipation of sky and horizon in the fog cover, murk within murk, variations on night

And D. standing back on the edifice, holding a light high so I could find my way back to him

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It is the year 2024 (anno domini), or the year 1740 (of the era of martyrs), or the year 2777 (by the count of the Caesar), or the year 231 (since the people stormed the Bastille). It is March, or Paremhat, or Einmánuður—the Lone Month—the last month of Winter.  …

a little piece left of white debranded sweets coated with pink  sprinkled with seeds savoured maybe I would have picked dark but you choose to gift light bit by bit I lit