(for Helen Macdonald)
I can hear Terry Riley's Harp of New Albion;
Cadence on the Wind,
and marvel at the loudly gamelanish pictures
of Dante, the goshawk;
the young one who stayed with us
for less than a week
in August 2026
on the farm up in Northbothnia;
his gaze right into my eyes –
and a sense of dignity & wonder
fills my day;
a feeling of having been honored
with his incredible,
palpable presence,
that I still cling to –
and though time, for me,
is bound to fade
as the end of days draws closer in old age,
the thinness is eerie
with light,
chords
& wings:
a transparance where the heart beats
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-08-16 at 10:33
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Remembering Dante, the Goshawk
I can hear Terry Riley's Harp of New Albion;
Cadence on the Wind,
and marvel at the loudly gamelanish pictures
of Dante, the goshawk;
the young one who stayed with us
for less than a week
in August 2026
on the farm up in Northbothnia;
his gaze right into my eyes –
and a sense of dignity & wonder
fills my day;
a feeling of having been honored
with his incredible,
palpable presence,
that I still cling to –
and though time, for me,
is bound to fade
as the end of days draws closer in old age,
the thinness is eerie
with light,
chords
& wings:
a transparance where the heart beats
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-08-16 at 10:33
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
