Poem by Günther Bedson
Photo by Kees Terberg

I found your note lying
under the frozen doormat
where you normally leave
the key.

All hope is lost, you wrote,
there is nothing left worth living for,
is the only way out.

There is a rock, you wrote,
rugged and proud in the rough
north-sea rage, a rig mining oil
from deep within the burning crust.

There is a well, I thought,
pure and clear on a calm
island coast, flowing crystal water
quenching any thirst.

There are fires, you wrote,
spewing hot clouds of choking ash
and endless grey slick, smudging
the paralysed sky.

There is a breeze, I thought,
of air so smooth and light
that lungs can drink endlessly
in sweet ecstasy.

I crushed your words into the pocket
of my cloak, took the dog and the boat
and went searching –
to bring you home. 

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