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in Vikings' footsteps.

in these streets of no joy

the quiet has disembarked

and fled


osculatory cousins

reap what they sow

in the bus shelter


as the village bike

looks on disdainfully

blowing pink bubbles


shaking hands and

chattering babies’ teeth

the icy winds of pleasantries blow


winning the land

from the sea

of muddy salt flats


a tractor crawls

beneath the grey winter sun.