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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.

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