Written In A Steady Light
I may have tried to understand the wind
by Fini Lokke
as if it told me something in particular,
but suddenly I find it tedious, in vain,
the way it comes and goes, and always is the same.
There must be more inspiring metaphors;
it does, however, make me see the lightning rod
in town, experienced in boyhood
from the window still, as surplus of security.
Civilization has it's merits, even rush;
so has a house, a radio at sea.
Until you sense the magic of such things again,
you may not fall for candlelight in summer cottages.
Or sea shells which can tell you nothing
of yourself. It's you who grant the elements
their human rights. It might have been the other way around
if time had just begun, but it is rather late for that.