In a Northern Landscape
Ingela is thin and she never smiles
The man is tall and wears the same subdued colours.
Their accents might be anywhere, both seem perfect
And spend only the winter months here.
They own a stone cottage at the end of a field
That slopes to rocks and a gunmetal sea.
Their silence is part of the silence at this season,
Is so wide that these solitaries seem hemmed in
By a distance of empty sea, a bleak mewing
Of gulls perched on their chimney, expecting storm.
They sit in basket chairs on their verandah,
Reading and hearing music from a tiny transistor.
Their isolation is almost visible:
Blue light on snow or sour milk in a cheese-cloth
Resembles their mysterious element.
They pickle herrings he catches, eat sauerkraut
And make love on cold concrete in the afternoons;
Eaters of yoghurt, they enjoy austere pleasures.
And night oil lamps burn in their small windows
And blocks of pressed peat glow in a simple fireplace.
Arc lamps on the new refinery at the point
Answer their lights; there is blackness and the sound of surf.
They are so alike that they have no need to speak,
Like oppressed orphans who have won a fierce privacy.
Tom Paulin
*Six new tracks on the MMM MySpace player from forthcoming releases by Calder, Epic45, Piano Magic, Portal, Schengen and Still Crescent. Click myspace. com/makeminemusic to listen.