Runavik to Vagar: Faroes

This summer we went on a cruise to the Arctic circle,  visiting the Faroe Islands,  Iceland and Shetland. This poem was inspired by the rugged beauty of the Faroes. 



I

Houses huddle on treeless hills
Following basalt strata, following the road, 
Grey, black, red, white,
Unique, hard-edged, all stand alone
Facing the inlet, their backs to mist-draped hills.
Roads follow contours, skirt lakes, 
Tunnel through grass-covered mountains, 
Delve under the seabed to link islands, 
Serve up salmon farms, Faroe horses, dark, woolly sheep. 

II

Cormorants half-submerged, bob between sea stacks, 
Witness the probing of sea on stone, 
Where waterfalls rush blindly over sheer cliff walls,  
Tumbling to the sea past narrow ledges
Where razorbills patrol and puffins bodge bumpy landings. 

This land where the strongest thrive. 


© Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pedalling towards Recovery

Part of my daily physio to counteract arthritic knees and hip is 20 minutes on the exercise bike. It's actually quite an enjoyable start to the day, giving me plenty of thinking time. Pedalling hard Easing knees, teasing ease, Breeze on my face as I race Towards a distant day Of walking without thought  Without stick or support, Walking out of the door Going further than before Each step bringing more. Legs pound, pound, pound, Thoughts go round, round, round. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Read more

Radio Times

Another notebook find - a poem sketched out two years ago, charting the changes in my radio listening habits over the years.     On teenaged Friday evenings Illicit charts on pirate radio Eased me into a funky disco mood As I teased bubbles into soft peaks. Late nights in digs Contentedly alcohol-hazed,  The Shipping Forecast sailed me away Amongst wave tangled sheets. Afternoons alone in our first house Baby safe with her Nan, I danced to Radio 1, cigarette in hand, Among trestle table, paper and paint. Early morning commutes  Worrying what the day might hold,  Dreaming of a better life  To the honeyed voice of Terry Wogan. These lazy afternoons,  Decaffeinated coffee soothes  As I spend my days in the company Of plays, podcasts, and poetry. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Read more

Tea Party

It's funny how some memories of childhood stay fresh and clear, while others disappear.  I came across this memory in some notes I'd made on childhood during my course, and had to write them up before they disappeared once again.   My nineteen guests sit in a circle Splay-legged on the carpet, Silent, eyes blank, looking straight ahead As if in the company of strangers. A mixed, assorted bunch, From tiny dolls with painted hair,  To blue-eyed, blonde-haired Fiona, Standing half my height, my latest friend. Mixed in between, with no distinction made, The hunched and furry bears, Reaching out their worn and clumsy paws Towards impossible teacup handles. The shaky teapot pours juice into their cups, Red plastic plates are passed around To share the iced ring biscuits politely, Though every one is bitten by my proxy teeth. The party warms up as 'tea' and biscuits disappear, Guests slump in their places, inhibitions lost, As they regain the toy box familiarity  Of li...
Read more