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Gerry Stewart

My Norwegian bones
pocked and indistinct
beneath our feet.

breath-balanced walls
sweeping up fields in a tumbled

Pot-bellied hay threshers
trundle silent,
ice etched,
scraping soil
over knuckles of stone.

The steel-gray sea
line-ruled against
the white-blush sky.

Memories eroded
nearly twenty years gone
only remnants cling
to old photographs,
the shards of language.

Overlaid in fresh layers;

the milky scoop
of a ceramic bowl
brimming with mackerel,
cobalt fire within a glaze of blood

a child shaping his own mythology
with my fertile clay

filled with a joy
of ducks
and learning to crawl,

tongue out at the wind
and spitting rain.





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