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Lived through days

She found swallows which had crashed already dead
And dried flowers which would dust away;
She was breathing death before it was her time

(And then it didn’t come, and she became a hundred)

But there were days as well with too much life
With buttercupslight and lambs still happy for the slaughter,
There were days that might have been forever

In everything uniting she found power,
She read with all her strength as much as had been said,
From every word retrieving evidence
Of a reality and she was not alone.

Trust

Breathe the air unseen
And fit into the water;
The Earth won’t drop you.

Dream the rain, eyes closed,
Hear steps become a river
Where fish go, seabound.

Let your feet touch sand,
Smell light as you walk down
Unseen. Leave for now.

You

In the pearl of the morning
Watching the dew tears
On unfolding Spring

Your face appears in mildly winking
Amongst other past features
Of uncertain times

And I am with you now
Cloud to cloud, blue to blue.
Love your smile.

It will stay with me
Till afternoon rain.

Memorial plaque of Steve Hall washed ashore

Steve-Hall-who-is-heSomething different from my usual postings.

On Easter a memorial plaque still attached to some piece of wood washed ashore on the beach of Terschelling and we think it might be coming from the UK.

Read here in English about the beachcomber’s find

Looking for relatives. If you happen to know a Steve Hall who died in October 2011 and was 45 years of age, it might be him. Please let us know.

Thank you!

Amor

From my hand to the paper went my mind,
The ink fled wider than the words, my thoughts
Found space while beaks became a delta,
The poems were a sea of all I wanted you to know.

But your ships would never sail my waters,
And a draught has blown the sheets away,
Last words that never made it to Pompeii.
I hope you made it safe and free.

To start a new year with a new poem and wishing everyone a very good 2017.

2016

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.

Island in December

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.

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