Tuesday, 20 April 2021

Kjell Espmark: 'Vi har slagit läger vid tjärnen'



We have pitched camp by the small lake, dad and I.

The sky is white, offers not the slightest help with a script.

All that can be heard is nervous mosquitoes,

and crackling and hissing from the fire

where dad is grilling char in greased paper.

This silence among the mountains

takes in our years of silence and distance –

years he likes to believe in brackets.

His hands fumble with a lack of language –

are trying of course to find words that repair

what has never been able to be repaired.

We are dark in the white night

as if we were film negatives.

He smiles a bit vaguely as he hands me the coffee.

But his grey-blue eyes are helpless.



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