On high ground in evening light, how nice,
the sea before me seems so undisturbed –
Terschelling island waiting for the night.
Not much is wrong here, the lighthouse beams
shine over quiet waves.
A legacy of ebb and flow,
the scene I want to pass on
to my children’s children in my will.
This gift of nature,
a dream to start my night with,
in pink and orange wrappage. Will it be mine to give?
Then, seagulls, trapped and dead in bright
blue nylon, wash ashore and start to be part of a nightmare.
More and more the rising sea proves to be
a giant bowl of plastic soup.
Unsavory. Unprecedented. Ugly, made of useless nonsense
like 60 years of waste, my life, in balloons, bubble gum and bags.
The wind is howling now and disapproves.
I close my eyes. I do not want the day to end like this.
When I wake up the demons of the night have washed themselves away.
A seabird screams and leaves, the sea, a mystery again,
waits for the new tide to repeat,
a little higher every day her movements,
giving back to us all the nasty spillage of her human vomit,
leaving us our home-made killing legacy.
I wrote this poem yesterday to perform this morning for the participants of the Springtij festival (symposium) here on the island. As it is an international affair, I did it in English.