To be in a place you don’t know
at six pm somewhere in March
and smell unfamiliar food being cooked,
you suspect the sun to go down soon
but how soon – you don’t know,
to find it is time for a drink
in a pub, then make a stroll
not too far out of town
where the shades make you think
you have been here before,
that you lived here, you must have
but they have forgotten your name,
and yes the sun sets right on time
in the sea when you reach the shore,
to be there in March
watching that moment,
to be in that moment,
that is what you came for.
I saw a face in setting sun
that I adored, a face so old
in quietness, but young in looks.
I heard a voice in evening prair
that I found dear, a voice so young
in timelessness, but old in words.
It was your face, it was your voice,
Papa. I dreamt of you last night.
Getting out in the sunlight
after a season in the old people’s home
there she is, pushed by an angry looking woman
who wears sunglasses and an expensive coat.
Her wheel chair is brightly decorated with balloons
and she is smiling. She made it through another Winter.
“Let’s go to the harbour!” she says with her birdly voice.
“I want to be close to the water!”
I am not sure this is a good idea,
as the expression of her daughter’s face is changing.
“Yes mother, what a lovely thought!” she says
before giving the chair a big push in the right direction.
Now evening shades are entering the room,
a little later than the day before
(although that is not noticed much by whom
lives here, and who just came in by front door).
They slowly move, take over the white wall,
the portraits, fading in oblivion,
see no longer what is here at all
(as if they’d care of what is going on) .
And just when darkness conquers light,
when dusk gives in- the magic’s gone
and all is night. The tv now shines bright.
The lamp switched on, the mystery is done.
Although the shades are leaving grounds once more,
tomorrow evening they’ll be back I know,
to get the right that they’ve been fighting for:
their place under the roof, that they want so.