Somehow there is a white horse in the street.
We live rural, this can happen.
It is standing in the middle,
with its four enormous feet
and it shits a lot, that’s all.
No one minds, it’s Sunday morning
and the horse feels right in place.
Cars are driving, Sunday touring,
we hold our breath, but there is space.
We drink our coffee
waiting for what is to come.
Sunday mornings in the country
are dull maybe, but never boring,
well at least to some.
It can’t be different, this is us.
The beach has the same grains of sand,
they have just moved a bit,
more distant from the land.
It is still us here on the pier,
you just don’t take my hand now. Dear.
No, the pier has not changed at all,
same view, same wind, same skies.
Of course it is not Summer now, but Fall.
The one-legged seagull always at our feet is here,
he remembers how you threw
a piece of bread in his direction.
But you don’t greet him now, it flies
away. You sneer.
I try to make a picture of you and the giant wave,
pity to miss, with the camera you bought me,
last time that we were here, you gave
it with a kiss.
I can’t get it to work and no,
you don’t help me out this time, I see.
But it can’t be different, dear?
It is still us and the same pier?
The universe has nothing to do with the love
we earthlings feel for one another
hysterical love songs are such lies
You and I know what love is
It has boundaries, as we have a mother,
we are no gods
There are no stars that watch us
even songs can’t make us
be more than
creatures who will die
But we have love.
Now that is something?
That is enough.
More and more our history is fading
into fragments of the past
glued to a butterfly wing, and resting
in the eyes of your framed picture.
The button of your coat
-the one you wore on the beach
and I already don’t remember
the colour of that coat-
will lose its meaning
There will be a day
our history together
has disappeared in the place
between the sea and the sky.
It was navy blue, and it was September.