I’m sitting on a wall in Ramburg,
a perfect white beach before me,
a scrap heap of metal behind,
a washing machine near the summit —
the entropy of rubbish
versus the symmetry of leaves.
Himmeltinden as clear as Hokusai.
Dipping my brush in a jar of Prussian Blue,
I could draw thirty-seven views
of that mountain with my eyes closed.
The tsunami never breaks. The waves are frozen.
I eat meat and cheese from the Spar.
It’s almost solstice now; the sun hangs upside down
like an acrobat almost touching water.
Maybe I’ll never see the dark again — good riddance.
I’m used to the light now.
Laurence O’Dwyer | Bogdan
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)