A Walk on Marken
Shall I say that I have run to rust
or to the russet sails of the IJsselmeer?
the red sails of the IJsselmeer
shivering beyond the edge of theology,
the black sails of the IJsselmeer
straining taut against the knowledge of ropes
that bloody the seaman's hands.
I walked on Marken's dike today.
The wind cut my face
While grass fell before the farmer's scythe.
The footprints of ancient monks
hidden in the stones
gathered,
blurred,
then rested in a thousand broken shells.
A cloud of swans!
One followed me along a canal, demanding bread.
"He will bite", said a Vrauw in the doorway.
"Fretful since he his lady lost".
Shall I say that I have run to rust
or to the black sails on the IJsselmeer?
Between the knowing and the telling
perhaps
one self instant of forgiveness.
