Oslo Calling.

Oslo is calling, yeah.

What awaits me there
but snow, and bluish fjords,
falling off crass mountains
to caress the sea.

Or perhaps the ghostly shape
of Viking ships,
slicing cold waters.
Red days of plunder
mark the masts,
turning crimson against the midnight sun.

Pyramidal roofs gathered
in neat lines to justify a town,
or wooden walkways bridging shores,
and sights, and maybe even
bridging thoughts.

Serene.

Peaceful.

Quiet as our notion of spaces between notes.

I was told the evenings there
are accented only by the lights
reflected in the snow,

And music there is made
by the ebb and flow
of the Northern sea.

But what beauty resides there
that is not here? Perhaps none.

For all that's been made lovely
somehow already found their way
to this place where you stand.