Dream in the wind

I keep falling through the wind
my footsteps running through memory's fog-ridden landscape.
Dreams follow in measured cues like a sonata being born within
eternity.
In Hafnir,
the houses bear the marks of the sea;
havens from storms and fickle winds.
The seagulls nest upon old lava fields, the moss hiding their eggs from
people that greedily gather them for their morning meal.
Again,
I keep falling into the sounds of the language, words like music, like
violins playing to an audience of Icelandic ghosts.
Again,
in Hafnir,
in half dream,
I see the fishing boats scream into the sea,
cold grey colours
like your eyes when the candles fell to the floor;
notes from my composition scattered against the slamming door.