Monday, 1 February 2010

A poem by the Dutch writer Peter Swanborn

B. and numbers uncountable,
initials unknown

A mountain stream in Norway,
late seventies, binoculars for
birds and neighbours, but suddenly
there was my father splashing around.

His nakedness new, so too his
pleasure. Unaware of being spied on
he enjoyed sun and water, not being
a chauffeur or breadwinner for a moment.

I was shocked at my shock, not being able
to avert my eyes, the glasses
from shame like a rifle at the ready.

Now he’s mouldering in his best suit, I
spy each day for prey splashing around.
Nobody sees me. They’re enjoying themselves.

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