Sea breath comes in damp ashore,
Telling, whispering of death,
The waves are lamed already
And from where I stand what is left, is just me,
Is just bone and flesh and tears that rest
Alone in mist in tender thoughts and faded hope.
I’m looking between North and West
and see no end and no beginning.
Another funeral goes by my house today.
The church bell tired in the Winter air
The mist horn crying, longing too
For this one year to go away and die.
Cold air entered first
as the door opened wide,
the man coming in
brought in mist from outside.
For a moment he stared
after shutting the door.
No one had ever seen him before,
he seemed lost. He seemed tired.
He walked to the bar
and ordered a beer.
We, the girls, ignored him, him not being
from here and alone, from afar.
But an old man approached him,
and asked who he’d be.
He didn’t answer. He got his drink free
as the old man went on
with his questions of how
had he managed to get here
where no living soul came.
This put him a bit of his balance we saw.
“How do you mean?”
“We are dead, see.” And all of us nodded.
“So what is your name?”
He did not answer, but knocked over his stool
as he ran out the door straight under a car.
Who could he have been? And why was he here?
His glass remains on the end of the bar,
and is never removed. But dead is his beer.
Before I had glasses the world
was simple to understand
in shapeless colours
which could mean anything,
left to imagination
and voices had a life of their own
connected only to scents and perfumes.
Once I did see the stripes between bricks,
the individual leafs on branches
and actual faces of relatives
nothing was easy anymore
as all seemed to matter. The unpredictable
pattern of cement-roads in walls,
the telling movement inside Autumn tree tops,
the way wrinkles fold and relax, matters.
The problems of dealing with others
begin when you can see their hidden intentions,
begin where it shows that the mirror has cracks
in between what is real and what not.
We should aim for the polar light of our
minds at best, the journey being the goal
not awaiting an ending, if we find.
Why anticipate such, does it have to end?
We see the beginning of friendships
sailing through calm water, later in storm,
moving from one heartbreak to another,
stranding on rocks or unknown distant shores.
Unexpectedly blinded by the green
all ends. No, there is no more. This is it.
Had you known, would you have bothered to go?