The cold wind scrapes my face
By now my hands are ice,
My legs are fighting back,
The snow is not inviting,
The trees sway back
And fights forth again
The wind is its conductor
With its rhythmic patterns
As I gaze upon the horizon
I see the stretch of crust
The many trekkers that passed
So many emotions spilled
As I leave the icy plain
The wind gives one last breath
The land gives an icy farewell
And imprints me as history
Poesi av Erick Flores och foto av Mikael Svensson. Bilden är från den 16 februari under min senaste tur till Grövelsjöfjällen.
