Astern the rowboat

The wind.
The water.
Valhalla.

The world’s first sight.
The world’s oldest sound.

A butterfly flutters by the beach.
It moves easily towards the half-strong wind,
strong enough to make the waves choppy,
splashing them up and over
the brown sand in front of our experienced feet.

Each time a cloud covers the sun
the wind lashes forth and draws traces in the water.
The wind whirls into our ears.
The waves lick over the sand astern of the rowing boat.

Now earth pushes up its belly right before our eyes.
It’s an island, shaggy with trees
taking care of it.

We are sailing in the world,
and the rain comes
tinkling on the tin roof cabin
where we lay smilingly rowing.

Valhalla turns its back and lets the sunshine in.
Again sky and water cling to each other as sparkles in the lake,
a galaxy of gleaming water stars;
in movement everything survives.

It was the butterfly
that took us.

Written by Charlotte Borup/Ron Ridenour in August 2008
by a shore of Ivösjön, Oretorp, Sweden