it’s almost Sunday
wolves get trapped
in the cliffs it’s the sound of the sea that hits us
the rolling of stones ahead a few boots
in the rock how the waves wash against the air
running the wind swells the cape the space
for your small memory yellow
as they ran children who stick out
their tongues in the rain to learn
sea salt the howling of the wind afresh
with the spray love comes rough
in all its ancient languages.

Translated by: Anne Posten