She
doubted the wisdom of
writing
poems that blamed
what
clearly didn't exist
but
in the minds of neighbours
those
she would greet on the way
to
the shops not to get marked out
as
a suspicious character
that
wouldn't do the town any good.
Instead
she would walk the hill
breathe
the cool air of an early morning
greet
the hares and wonder about
the
shape of yonder mountain
where
it was whispered gods once dwelt
before
the invention of this phantom
that
made one think in black and white
that
caused her to dress in the colour of death
leaving
no room for her dreams:
poems drenched in bitterness.
It
just left her weary with memories
she
wasn't supposed to have.
©Kees
Klok
Thessaloniki,
October 2009
Photo: Kees Klok
