A glacial moon-gaze lit a chilled night zephyr,
upon the glass-blue of ice blackened fjord,
the bitter bitten dew,
encapturing and encrusting,
expiring gasped greens,
   and diseasing falling  yellows,
      of a hazel and birch copse in a crystal-whitened gaze.

a gentle lapping on the ice-torn stone shore.
   from an ebb-tide matted seaweed glistens oily, 
      lolling from the memory and murmurs,
        of a distant nearly-forgotten Atlantic swell,
      infinite ripples,
   hopelessly counting  the innumerable stones,
artifacts from a midden of a vanished Glacier’s grave.
some now form the grassy burial-mounds,
from a  pagan Viking age.

the mystical Cloudberry’s green edges frost burnt,
  smeared like a wild Cranberry juice stain 
Blueberry leaves frosted now a vermilion-red berry hue,
   its fruit both wizened and decomposed,
awaiting the seasons rebirth,
    will become spring's vibrant  humus crown,
the meagre mossed mountainside ,
  held together by gnarled and dwarfed trees
grasping and gasping for life in Ice-Age sculptured stone.

the ancient Saeter crumbled,
now unrecognizable,
  from lichen, 
     sod, 
        centuries-old boughs,
            and mossy stone,
seduced back into the mountainside ,
by the silent inanimate power of gravity,
and sagging burden of consciousless ebbing time. 

 In the sombrous loud-black silence,
almost forgotten is the ceaseless percussion,
of water-upon-stone,
the cascading streams incanting torrent,
   drains the mountains emotional tears,
      of exiled snows and vanquished rains,
quelled and subdued in the passing of night hours,
by the creeping of  the unsympathetic
Frost’s jagged crystalline fingers,
slowly strangling the Mountain’s watery blood-vein.

desiccated-crisp heather bells,
will cling a while,
to be eroded ,
by winter’s sand-blast of blizzard’s rage,
chilled now to hoar,
by the boiling boreal Aurora’s  magnetic Valhalla storm.

coloured curtains and beams of light,
  that hang like search lights of that “other world”,
   Silhouetting the mountain tops,
    a ragged ridge looking like a broken weathered keel,
      and Odin’s battered throne of Lidskjalv

in the meadow of Idavollen,
the spirit of Trolls lurking sublimely,
are embodied in the dwarfed gnarled birch of the treeline,
   under the ghostly shadow of the Yggdrasil tree, 
      next to Thor and Odin,
         in the hallowed halls of Asgaard …………