When you’re in town, make a visit to the church
in old Luleå, half a mile distant. Proceed by sea,
for there are no horses to procure in the whole place.
On the way, you’ll pass “old man’s beard,” strange
grass, known here as Lapland hair. Also, deep
in the wet soil, shellfish crackle, while above
flies swarm, numerous as atoms, and above
them the northern sun, falling on the church—
built from fieldstone that doesn’t lie deep
but on the earth’s surface, washed by seas.
This one is old, constructed after strange
peace was negotiated with the Russians, placed
here to secure the state, and what a place
for a house of God, amid fields emptied
of harvest, and four hundred wood-built houses strangely
silent. Go ahead, step inside the church—
it isn’t quite the place to sweep you in a sea
of emotion, but doesn’t mean you don’t feel, deep
in the quiet. You think these roots run deep
but nothing has always been in this place—
no matter how eternal, God, Christ, the sea,
something else was there before, below, above.
A thing uncontained by wall and altar, a church
of wind and water, tall trees to whom strange
gifts were offered. Here, old statues of strange
martyrs, in whose heads are cavities deep,
holding water, so that priests in the church
can make them weep at pleasure. Go on, place
your hand on the book teaching mercy from above
and not between us sinners. Look up, you can see
the two pedestals with images upon each. See
how their hands are contrived to lift upon strangers
when they enter, folding in adoration from above.
Here, all is neatness. The lined pews tell of a deep-
seated need for order; everything in its rightful place—
we may fritter away on the fringes, so long as the church
is at the center. And above. While all around a sea of chaos,
the fieldstone church plays anchor; no place for our strange
loyalties to deep wilderness, calling to replace churches with trees.