The building is new, not yet consecrated by long memories. It has studies, an atrium to receive light from heaven, and a quiet room apart, a beadhouse in the woods of a place. Under the red leaves of a cherry…
Red LandThe red earth of Herefordshire makes me long to relive my last year’s journey to see a man who was dying slowly.(Through floods, rivers, red lakes which turned to wet slate, through darkness and tears the driver pressed on.)From…
(for Gwenllian Spink) After climbing along a ridge with a thin veil of soil over rock, driving past Pantrhydyrebolion, Blaenmelindwr a Syfydrin, lakes left by the ebb tide of a lost industry, I see under the crest of a wave…
(for Gwenllian Spink) A swallow-tailed moth landed on a boat fashioned to fly across the sea, a chrysalis had given birthto a creature with shades of tropical timbers – the spirit of the grandfather, flying by day and by night.…
(for Karen Westendorf) Look up towards the ship’s ribs of the roof: the regular rhythm of pillar after pillar and arch after arch nets us; the blue water of windows refracts the light; brown suggests an organ, and the chanting…
(for Elissa Henken) She sleeps in order to dream of life’s hidden treasure seen through the black crystal of night in pools between high tide and low water, where free music is heard as waves which try in vain to…
Great rainforest of the west where fern grows on moss, above grey-green lichen, flowers on bare branches, underneath the song of the spirits of miners tinkles as the river roars on waterfalls, pollution flows from the mouths of levels, but…
I have no longing for the distant past – it died one afternoon in December in a war cemetery of hop-poles, when light lost its brightness and the fingers of apple trees pointed to the wet sunset. I feel a…
(for Karen Westendorf) Inside a grey stone box there is a warning not to open the white box inside it because of the horrors it contains: the staging of a killing á la Goya by children, another child in the…
Willemien Spook ‘Oever van de stad’ The edge of the city‘Oever van de stad’translated by Margriet Boleijwith Mary Burdett-Jones I am standing in a rain that ticks little holesin the ring-dyke, silly tyrant,good-natured and earthy,who fell asleep like a crying…