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A World Without Color

Look for Me Under the Rainbow

January River

Cruel Summer

Postcards From Beyond Reality: The Selected Poems of Michael Daniels

  • Writer's pictureBernard Jan

Summer in Sweden

The smells. And weather. Those are the things that never seem to keep changing and be constant. There is almost not a day in a week when the sun, rain, wind and clouds lay down their arms and leave to one of them to steer a day into a tomorrow.

It is fascinating.

You can watch the weather forecast but rest assured your morning clothes won't fit in the afternoon or in the evening. You will be sweating, you will be rained on (or showered if you are that “lucky”), you will be dried or cooled down by the wind, while the clouds won't be leaving the sky above you even for a minute.

Clouds. So many clouds. Carried (away) by the wind or idly, lazily sailing, like they are contemplating of throwing an anchor above Växjö and staying here. So low, so close to earth as if they are purposefully trying to run against and scratch the rooftops of buildings, family houses, flagpoles, the treetops.

As if they want you to touch them. As if they wait for you to raise your arms, reach out and rub their bellies.

And then the scents, smells, fragrances, aromas. Damp, musky, floral, heavy, minty, air-light, woody, sweet, fruity, grassy, silky. Of soil, of air, of trees, of flowers, of food, of water in the lakes, of the streets in town. Of freshness. Always attacking your senses, nudging you to breathe deeply.

Sometimes hard to define them in their constant change in the mischievous game of the sun, rain, wind and clouds.

This is my summer in Sweden. And I hate to say goodbye to it.


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