Seven days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas. <br />I was a plaything, a rat’s neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff. <br />Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon. <br />Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled in granite languages on a gray sky, <br />A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against a night sky, <br />And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand people here. <br />Among the Wednesday night thousands in goloshes and coats slickered for rain, <br />I learned how hungry I was for streets and people. <br /> <br />I would rather be water than anything else. <br />I saw a drive of salt fog and mist in the North Atlantic and an iceberg dusky as a cloud in the gray of morning. <br />And I saw the dream pools of fjords in Norway … and the scarf of dancing water on the rocks and over the edges of mountain shelves. <br />Bury me in a mountain graveyard in Norway. <br />Three tongues of water sing around it with snow from the mountains. <br /> <br />Bury me in the North Atlantic. <br />A fog there from Iceland will be a murmur in gray over me and a long deep wind sob always. <br /> <br />Bury me in an Illinois cornfield. <br />The blizzards loosen their pipe organ voluntaries in winter stubble and the spring rains and the fall rains bring letters from the sea.<br /><br />Carl Sandburg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/baltic-fog-notes/
