Flying over Holland, I see how the land
Tilts and drains in a vee towards the great river.
The Amsterdam bridge over the Zuiderzee
is like a green eel seeking a distant shore,
connecting the north with the south.
The original shores of the land,
curved and rounded by tides
speak of an older drowned story.
The old and the new topography
spar with roads laid out across polders
following the cartographer’s dream.
The concept of north and south wins
over stream and bend.
When the plane wing
dips towards the edge of night,
the horizon tilts and forgets
to hold onto the curtain of day,
& stars nervously edge into articulation.
The islands of North Holland,
like the first statues of women,
talismans of Venus. Fertility goddesses.
We are flying home soon after the solstice
with the sun, with the sun.
Theoretically, by the clock,
our flight only takes hours.
I marvel at the patterns by the shore,
the circling of ships about their business.
The day turns in towards itself,
aspiring to the light of the sun,
the light, the light, the light of the sun.
Rev. 2023
No comments:
Post a Comment