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Vefrit fjármagnað af lesendum

Ef þér líkar við skrif okkar og efnistök og vilt sjá vefritið lifa og dafna þá er um að gera að gerast áskrifandi. Þinn stuðningur skiptir máli!

I remember my north

Ellen Wild, autum, fall, poetry, nature, nordic, memories, úr vör, vefrit, Aron Ingi Guðmundsson
„Only here, that we connect with all those aspects within our nature. Only here, that we grow to live with our extremes.“ Photo by Aron Ingi Guðmundsson

Text: Ellen Wild

The winds changed again.

Bringing a whisper from over the mountains.

On its lips a shift in nature's rhythm.

The rain feels just a little colder, soaking a different soil.

There is the sudden realisation that it is dark again at night.

As if its arrival was sudden, somehow unexpected.

But darkness brought his beloved, the daughters of the sun.

Dancing with fire, their footprints leaving a trail of colours in the fields.

And all look up into the sky, expectant. The smell of home, coming from far beyond.

The sweet of summer climbed to the other side of ripeness. Nature reached full term.

All that is sugar, is ready to fall and rot on the ground. Like a mother ready to lose herself after birth, knowing that she has to die for her child before spring will come for her again.

All flowed to purpose. Death has arrived.

Under the cloak of darkness. A silent shadow from behind.

August brought my favourite season of the year.

One of those special times you only find up north.

Somewhere in between summer and autumn. Harvest season, berry season, pre-fall.

Only here, on these places on earth, where the seasons change so much in a year. Where all those in-betweens take their rightful place.

Only here, that we connect with all those aspects within our nature.

Only here, that we grow to live with our extremes.

Those sweet midsummer days are a memory again.

Died to recycle in the wheel of the year.

Awaiting to be birthed by its own memory.

Not long now before the first snow will sleep on those mountaintops.

Not long before the stars shine over the fjord.

Nature is moving us, our likeness whispered in the wind. We are longing to connect, forgetting that we are as much part of it as the ripe blueberries on the slopes.

There's no need to connect, only to listen and move.

Our energy is on the brink of change. It is time to come home.

Almost, these winds carry a feel of homesickness. We have been out for long enough, playing in the summer breeze.

Almost, just a few more steps out the door. Mother calling. Just a couple more jumps and games. The knowledge that we are called in, making time shorter.

August is the season of coming home. Of red skies, cold winds and longing. Digging in the earth while our eyes reach for the night.

Have you ever seen such a diamond sky?

But we never forget.

Oh, this land of mine.

Oh, this home under my feet.

I remember my north.

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