Rare sounds abound in these places
where wind is dressed in white
Rare sounds abound in these places
where wind is dressed in white.
It roars and twists and winds its way
into sea and lungs and ice.
Obscure cantatas start and end here
their notation reaches in to head
and heart continues onward
outward, upward.
This absence of heat hurts hands
and feet and chest, but ah, a chance
- why not - to bare secrets to no one
but a company of weathered flags
and stones. (Ardour casts reason aside
in this short season of constant sunshine.)
No birds haunt these arid contours,
the wind-stretched, wind-wrecked coast.
Erebus wonders beside her own shattered sea.
Nature's cries and chords ride
on this thin air.
Icebergs chant.
Hidden tides raise doubts about weather
- and whether - and post-catabatic treasure.
Wander the bones and tendons,
the arteries and sinew of New Harbor.
In this place, arias are born
transcendent as the sun.
Wait.
Watch.
Truth resounds on an inward breath.
Wait.
Site design inspired by Claire Beynon's Katabatikos VII and Flag Song.