Trees die for the sake of poetry,
some were homes to nightingales –
one should be able to tell
by the poems on their paper.
Flowers are cut with the sharpest knives
to be given away affectionately,
but often the roses
die for nothing.
Words are read, silently tasted for sound,
their meanings unheard,
drifting through air
The nightingale loses its home,
the flower its life and words their voice
to connect one searching heart
to another waiting soul.
Clouds tell me of places,
shapes emerging and fading –
none might ever appear again.
I’m the only one here
to see these figures explode
when a wild goose is joining me.
As we’re watching the sky,
we understand each other
and I become the wild goose now.
Flying towards the clouds
I go over land and sea:
the wild goose and the former me.
I took the pic a while ago, here on Terschelling
We stood before the open gate
and waited in the springtime sun
as none of us spoke much that time,
we only heard the wind blow hard.
We watched her get her red kite up:
the girl who came from Amsterdam.
Her hair was black in curls and shone,
she wore a jacket and a scarf.
She let the kite go in the air
and you ran forward through the gate
to grab the line, thus saved the day.
You took her hand. We held our breath.
We, others, knew right there and then
that you may never let her go
so obvious it was to us.
The kite is gone, but love has stayed.
Your children now play in the grass,
a girl with black and curly hair,
the boy’s is red just like his dad,
and they have kites that fly all day.