A grey moon rises
over Bolafjall,
a mushroom in a nest
of mottled cloud,
or a patched football
ready to bounce,
down and down,
and splash
into the waiting sea.
The clifftop sprouts flags -
now Iceland,
now the Stars and Stripes.
By the perimeter fence a man stands,
arms crossed.
And thoughts criss-cross the sky
in secret strands,
invisible conversations.
Up here on the mountain
the stripes are rock terraces,
the stars the night sky,
the stone sprouts small living things,
ladies mantle, saxifrage,
a snow bunting trills alarm,
the patient hills curl arms
about the fjords.
On a clear day, they say,
you might believe
in Greenland.