The Ancestral Wake Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The tang of salt is sharp and clean,
Where ancient wooden
hulls have been.
A briny mist upon the breeze,
Now carries scent of
colder seas.

The blood of sailors guides the hand,
So far away from crowded land.
This golden sky they used
to know,
A thousand quiet years ago.

They pulled the oars and cast the net,
Where endless day and night are met.
The heavy timber feels alive,
As older memories survive.

The wooden oars now groan and creak,
Of old, forgotten days they speak.
The northern water, biting chill,
Brings numbness to the fingers still.

A distant lighthouse starts to gleam,
To guide the sailor through his dream.
Then sudden tension strikes the twine,
The heavy catch now pulls the line.

The Midnight Sun shines red and low,
To light the depths that swirl below.
Through salty air and fading track,
The quiet currents pull us back.

The sea birds call across the foam,
A timeless path that leads us home.
To fish and dream, to drift and trace,
The ghosts of men who loved this place.