SLIDING/ BERIT ELLINGSEN
When we are sliding fast towards winter, the daylight narrows to silver as the eaves of the wooden houses and the corners of the hedge-bounded gardens grow dark.
Leaves slap yellow and orange and green against the half-dressed birches and the moist cobbles in the courtyard and aim for the mountains across the bay.
The light swells and swells in us until we are ready to come off the ground like a scab from the skin and the sky takes us quickly apart.
But we can’t stay in this moment for long, we need to be something else again, and we yearn for it to pass.
Denser clouds drift in and the sun sets unseen behind them.