One summer i journeyed up the coast of N along the Atlantic hi-way
To acquire cretin books from the collection of the father of my psychoanalysts
I took a detour to visit the sculptor work of k which i was told was situated on one of the islands along the way .
i had boarded the wrong boat and did not know were i was
mistook the ferry sign and ended up on the wrong island .
Luckily i took advise from the locals as to places to sleep as i would have to stay on the island for a few days .
I was advised to go to a village which was situated far out on the skerries
There the houses were protected by countless little rocky islands
Here i was told i would find a commune of artists and i would find a bed for the night
The roofs seemed of rainbows the kind they could not have made themselves
these young artist shared a love of the sculptor K,s work But they had found his work destroyed by fire
Now spending the summer in its reconstruction
When the sea was clam enough to take a boat out