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The nun

On different photos, layers of dust, just one
is clear although the sepia fading.
This is the portrait she always stroked,
her thoughts butterflies in the garden.
This room is not a room, it is
where they have loved each other deeply.

Sleepy her eyes try to focus on the face,
only a vague contour is showing. He
could have been one of her ancestors too, but
she remembers the frame under her skin.
It is him, almost gone beneath the paper.

Children’s voices sing in the garden,
taking her back to the monastery and her death.
The house has been empty for sixty years,
the dust has thickened. No one comes here anymore.


( I shall not try to explain this one, it is written in an attempt to understand someone I never met. If that is vague, well that is poetry for you…)


Night herds

For nights her bed
had been cold,
most dark hours
the gate was banging,
and she counted
the ghosts
passing her window,
disobedient sheep
keeping her awake.

Always more than fifty,
less than a hundred,
the whole world slept
and no else one knew
screaming herds of formless ewes
were moving from graveyard
to graveyard, each of them
carrying a childhood memory
and a scarecrow’s grin.

(all the above is the result of me wanting to write something funny, but it was not going to happen this evening, not with the prospect of cold feet, a cold bed and dark hours to be equally cold in. On a brighter note, … oh well. Time will tell if my feet will be warmer and if the brighter note really exists. And if not, there will always be socks)


Will nothing good come from this time?
We seemed to get on fine, and I
was sure. No light goes out all by itself,
the birds take daylight; time – the lamp,
and words have brought me darkness, damp,
when I had hoped for better times.

But I can listen to the dark.
And I can speak,
and ask and if you want, I understand,
but I won’t have my light taken away from me
and I won’t hide in no ones darkness.

Passed the crucifix

All sadness in our genes emerge as we share stories.
Most pain has been forgotten, but our souls know,
as they remember why we feel lost so many times.

In the old cathedral where I took you
a blanket of desperation is still lingering,
still to be felt, unknown by the living but felt.

But we move on, in life and passed the crucifix,
and alter what we  leave behind, what will be found,
later, they will find love and laughter.

So shall we, although we need to look for it in unlikely places.
You make me laugh in front of the altar, o God,
I can’t take you anywhere really. The blanket moves gently.

Distant lover

And then the truth appears in absent words
that speak in silence of his coldest shoulders
and his indifference,
but say that real life so got in the way.

Apparently, now they are far apart,
real life is not her space these days.
She is just something on the internet.

He said he had not felt so well with someone,
so relaxed, that he had been without love many years.
It felt alright. It felt like home.

She stayed a week.

Watching herself she knows she is real life.
A woman,  mother,  human being and a friend. A widow.
And with all pain, this hurt is just one more.

She will survive, move on one day and love again.
Real life etcetera. Once more she learnt a thing or two,
like: don’t  believe a lover with
bright pink slippers in his bedroom, when they are not his size.


For days after her new status as a widow
she did not look at her body, now going into celibacy,
she did not comb her hair, nor change her clothes,
for some of him – a faint odor only she knew, a memory of his last breath –
was still there, to be remembered, to fade slowly, melting with fragrances
of other people’s daily lives.

She had no time to think much about all this,
for things had to be arranged and dealt with, the coffin chosen.
But later, after the turmoil and the upset had calmed down,
she found time to look in the mirror and it came to her
she was a different woman now
in clothes he had never seen her in. In a time never to be his.

As day by day, with every eye blink, every sunrise,
life returned to her in useless opportunities and goals,
challenging her curiosity and vows,
she learnt to accept
that scents were new for her to enjoy. That her body
was moving on and that she was still herself.



november gets at me,
eyes tired of the lamplight;
you’re not much better too.

wait with me until spring
and bed with me, closed curtains.
expect no more than warmth.

warm nothing more but me
and don’t give in to leaving.
november gets at us.

accept. let go. be tired.
condensated under hail
are our frosted windows.

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