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Tromsø

Your shiny streets, subdued footsteps, silent, snow -softened cars.
Plumply-padded pavements. Shuddering snow slips from the roof slopes above. 
Words softly spoken – hushed - heated words make slush. 
People stay indoors, behind the swish of a thermal shutter. 
Lots of nightly noise, machines to move the mounds of menacing snow for the early frozen few.
No dreams disturbed behind their swished, silent chalet slumber.
Still the snow falls mutely. 
Shouldn’t stand so close to shops where the nightly collection may Niagara.
It finds no succour on unsteady slates 
It rests unruffled, newly nested upon the swollen ledges and the spires, where in warmer times the birds might sit a while. 
No wheeling gulls their shrill shrieks silenced by the stillness of the snow.
Cold breeze and seas freeze in the hostile, hopeless hinterland where nothing grows amid the long winter floes.
Inside the homely hostel, hear the happy humour of a hundred distant dialects, of those who come to listen to the silence. 
They are walkers-not for dogs or cats or other nightly stalkers. 
Here, no spirited footprints left fresh in the first-light, cosmetically concealed by fallen flakes.
Prices high as your crisp blue skies.
Thank you for accepting me and my heart for our short time. You pleased us both.

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