A poem by Robin Fulton
from the 'song of stone' issue of island
 

FLEMSØYA

A December blast in June
cuffs the acres of thistle-
heads
we imagine thistles
are the sole inhabitants
 

here, 62:40 North

on a small island from which
the best view southwards of wide
water and spiky mountains
must be from the non-windows
of a wooden house whose wood
long since turned invisible.
On rough flat land by the shore
stone steps lead to a non-porch.

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