In Oslo, on the skyline of brick and sharp glass

a line of gulls surveys the harbour

construction murmurs in the street below

our hotel has a balcony in zero degrees

and if we get our way

we will be off to summer shortly as we pretend

the world isn’t changing

unmasked crowds gather around shops (it is nearly

Christmas) and in the medieval castle grounds

a woman says “What would it be like

to have a proper king again?”

and the children look unsure, and one says,

“wouldn’t it be good?”

A glass elevator rises above the fjord,

reaching the building’s sharpest point.

It is always a strange time to be a body.

We all edge more towards sabotage.

Who will rescue whom?