Who stands, the crux left of the watershed,
On the wet road between the chafing grass
Below him sees dismantled washing-floors,
Snatches of tramline running to a wood,
An industry already comatose,
Yet sparsely living.
Rest of the poem is here.
Cool things about Norway, where I am with Richard Gregor from the Java Wireless Toolkit team (and several others who I haven't met with yet)—Oslo airport oddly reminiscent of a sauna, with wood paneling everywhere; Norwegian coins have holes in them, which I thought only happened on tiny islands in the Pacific; TVs that swivel rock; films on TV are not dubbed but subtitled (is there a better way of ensuring that people learn English from an early age and that the local language gets bastardized at the same time?); Harrison Ford consistently finds himself in movies where he ends up running around frantically with a confused look on his face. (The latter observation has nothing to do with Norway, but is worth pointing out anyway.)