In Haväng

Through lonely landscape a river runs seaward
and burrows down between the green banks.
A last grave barrow on the beach
waves its goodbye, half buried in sand.

Thinning remains of a now long gone wood
are as a harp for the hard easterly.
The harsh ground whispers a promise:
Stone Pinks have remained true to this place.

All on their own live these hills.
Sand Martins swing up out of their earthy holes.
An amulet, born on a chain of memories,
where Sea and Meadow by their very name, give scent.

In lonesome company I shall often think
of this simple jewel of nature.
An amulet, born on a chain of memories,
where Sea and Meadow by their very name, give scent.