Born not of night’s fall on the sea you,
No, borne to land a living pearl not
You, not stormy daughter, nor gold apple eater,
Not willow-bodied, trapped beneath nets heaving.
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The clock on the wall is broken. It chokes backwards, its voice cracking. He sits in the armchair. I don’t know where I am.
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On my chest of drawers,
the record player is mute,
its needle still in the groove
after it stopped turning…
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In the square outside Freiheit street number sixteen,
in the world above U-Bahn commuters, there meet
the Schachspielers.
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“Clutched tightly by his adoring father, the fair-haired blue-eyed toddler was the picture of innocence”
Choices driven by hate, or driven by ignorance, choices are made.
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I.
Tussocks:
the moor’s repine, fields wide,
these sinewy growths
are cairns or markers,
but of what?