Bleak Coast

Bleak Coast On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores to swim in her tepid embrace? A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over, the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slaps the shore in a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which they eat with sour milk and many prayers.