As I prepare for my daily ritual of resetting my mind, body and soul by dipping into Sluseholmen’s perfectly chilled harbor waters, I notice the Copenhagen’s skyline has been replaced by dense fog. Not the smog that is ravaging Delhi, Beijing and Paris, but good, old-fashioned November fog.
A poem for November.
For some reason, November gets a pretty bad press in this corner of Scandinavia. Indeed, the Danish poet and novelist, Henrik Nordbrandt has dedicated a poem about his despair for the penultimate month of the year. The one verse poem wittingly and simply displays his torment:
“The year has sixteen months: November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, November, November, November.”
I acknowledge that many Danes share Henrik Nordbrandt’s sentiments, however, as I observe the Silver Birch from my kitchen window, clad in a glorious cloak of yellow, I am not among them. Buffered between Autumn and Christmas, November offers a precious time-out and a opportunity to inhale the previous 10 months.
As I sink into the harbor for a final dip, a kayak glides silently by and disappears into a land of fog. Blissful November.
Content & Image Credits: Phillip Mills