Island upon island, a hermit's paradise, moored to reality by a thin thread: fragile skiffs bobbing inside dollhouse-sized harbours. The odd wooden house—never more than one per cliff—a colourful barnacle riding the back of some dormant aquatic beast, changed by time into boulders. On a quiet day, you can still hear the creature sigh in its sleep, in the lazy rhythms of the grey and aqua sea lopping along its flanks.
Exotic places those islets, every one, with perennial Christmas trees for palm fronds and violently spiked glühwein for tropical punch; a land of eternal sunsets or absolute nights, rich in ferns and crystal waters, both peaceful and tormented in turn, at the whims of a dark sea which guards and destroys its dominion cleft after cleft, sending it crumbling into the waves, turning prehistoric mounts into sandy beaches, one shard at a time.
Gifts from departing glaciers.
Foot prints in snow.