I caught my own feet
standing there, slopped shanks
of wetness, poured over
with sea. I watched
the warm, feathery liquid
like wrapping fingers, like cotton
gently cover and discover
my skin to leave it
clean underneath. To dismantle
the cool, hard grits
of ground rock, between my toes
and leave me wondering
if this is what they talk of
when they talk of the acceptance.
If now, knowing myself -
my self - means before, I didn’t.
The thirties, they say. You know
what you want.
Yes. I walk into years
in my ice-cool blue dress
beautiful, bohemian, innocent, free.
... By Sjur Roald, shot in Norway, and it was the coldest beach I'd ever posed on:
And by Malvin Jan Dyb:
