Thursday 30 August 2012

Poem by the Dutch writer
Peter Swanborn


 Outside, she says, yes I’d like that, a
little walk and then partake of something,
cappuccino and croquettes, first though
the brambles, are they already black?

After a hundred metres of shuffling and leaning
along the familiar river and a bank full of
unnameable flowers, anxiously:
You know where we are, don’t you?

Way back, from bench to bench, till
breath once more, all thought of
brambles and croquettes long evaporated.

Here is the door, the lift, the passage, inside
at last, coat off and then the question: You know,
I’d really like to go out for a bit.

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