Between those moments without air
I breathe in whatever the sea brings me: tar and salt,
diesel and dead seaweed. The air before evening.
Here on this dune my world looks well enough:
Sky still blue, calming waves, the ongoing sound
of the north-western surf. Here I can breathe.
Crows. They approach me to include me
in their secret. I see their souls. They understand
I need some quietness and ask no more. But then
The church bells ring for yet another funeral,
The foghorn starts, my world now fading
into mist. I return home to suffocate again.