I am standing on the seashore. A ship
spreads her white sails to the morning
breeze and starts for the ocean.
I stand watching her until she fades on
the horizon and someone at my side says.
"She is gone." Gone where?
The loss of sight is in me, not in her.
Just at the moment when someone says,
"She is gone," there are others who are
watching her coming. Other voices take
glad shout, "Here she comes,"
and that is dying.
(Henry Scott Holland)
On the road to Narvik
Staffan and I on Staffans last
birthday when he turned 59.
Appelles-moi comme tu le faisais
avant, je t´entendrai, je continue de