Prose

Under the storm-fearing clouds boiling in gray scale mocking the Baltic Sea who’s rushing waves burst over sandy beaches and the North Sea’s angry bubbles south of the water’s café nestled in the double shoreline Skagen is where a men wearing mossy beards with life styles of their own staring at an oil painting with a blood red bonfire caressing the wooden frame and painters brush long gone pinned to yellow pastel brick walls under the grassy roof along with the ever lingering smell of fresh fish killed less then an hour ago in the white tiled kitchen under the snowy moon of the Northern Country.