Not the sea, but in the damp mists, concrete slabs,
metal scrap, where the old crimson paint
is sprayed into the air every now and then. A jetty is sticking up
surrounded by rotten seaweed - a refuge for the sea swallow.
Where the sand meets the strait, the observer waits
for the red to fade on this side of the masts
and for the time to return home. But where is this home?
Here or on the other side the water? In the mountains,
where the avalanches polished the massif wall? Under the fir trees
outside the city, where the dilapidated basements shine? In the body
that grows older, which no longer endures? Maybe in the doubt
that you ever lived? In the assurance that you will disappear?
In the rest of the world, poisoned with rust,
or in the gaze, that even here
finds symmetry, harmony and balance?
@SteemSwede