Wednesday 4 November 2015

Another poem by Lars Gustafsson


A thermometer that broke free
of the jetty in July

re-emerged, caught by the ice
in March and looking quite astonished.

Half-past two. Rain against the roof.
I have only turned the first few pages

in this new night’s dark book.
There is a lot to read

There are pages
that I will never get to open

Incomprehensible pages. Pages without end.
Pages full of water, streaming water

that thoughtlessly reflect the morning light.

The still dark waters
from bogs and marshland

water with a bitter pharmacist’s scent
scents of eel-grass, bog bilberries and bog myrtle

Water with a bitter scent from those dead
that sank into the dark-brown depths of time

and hardened into darkened blocks of wood

I am reading from night’s dark heavy book.
And it has no last page

I am reading from night’s heavy book.
It is streaming, this text is cold,

as if it came from melting snow
Yes, everything would fast be gone from here.

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