The poet, squatting down, is the supplier
Of words without notes. Tapping away
On ivory keys. Rereading love and letters on
White paper. The word is a stranger,
Looking for shelter. Wanting just another
Word with her. The years. Yes, the years
Flowing shamelessly like the changing tides
Through Zeeland. Dreamless Zeeland
When I am not there. Dreamed Zeeland
When I walk along the beach.
Tones of seething notes, high tide notes.
Wreck master haunted by whisperings and
Drowned Germans. If only they had not,
If only they had not. And always the water.
THE
UNENDING SONG