Journal in March

By | 15 May 2023

Berlin, 2022

I write in haste, as if on the jut of the future,
the thinly veiled present stands still all around,
like a set of chessmen waiting to be knocked over.
We move dumbly, slow tractors
in a time of harvest, the sun falls on us
we don’t blossom into speech,
listen for heroes, angels. My daughter’s wild scribbles
evolve into figures and stories –
this starry canopy flailing open in her mind.

A man evacuated with his 10 month old husky,
dog and man, man and dog,
so this is love,
two beings in infinite fear,
one trembling at the knees of the other.

On Sunday we climb a hill
made of rubble from World War Two,
some bricks protrude, mostly the ground is smooth,
and a forest grows at the top,
we walk through brisk air,
delicate snowdrops that flourish, quietly.

What is paradise and what hell?
Is it this moment we should fondly remember?
Our home shattered only by a child’s tantrum,
when we leaned against the afternoon,
and the street was still.

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