Stillness of a Saturday morning,
barely a shimmering
on the harbour water,
bird song fills the air,
the bark of a distant dog.
A storm is coming.
But the storm never arrives,
merely a soft rain.
People don their bathing suits,
embrace their sisu,
partake in avanto swimming.
It’s true,
there is no ice in the harbour,
but my hand tenses with the cold
when I dip it in the water.
Boats and ferries drift by,
soundlessly from a distance,
among specks of islands,
most with houses on them.
I wonder who might live in such places,
where a commute requires a boat.
A seagull pulls a worm
from a crack in the stone wall
upon which I’m sitting,
tilts its head back
and swallows it whole,
then looks at me as if to say,
what do you think about that?
I sit on a bench near a pier
to rest my weary feet,
watch people stroll by,
men and women pushing baby strollers,
runners – even the elderly run in Helsinki,
a group of people speaking in sign language,
a boy holding his mother’s hand.
I feel invisible on my bench,
watching the world
behind my silent screen.
But then the little boy
holding his mother’s hand
turns to me and waves,
and I am back into the world
once more.