Swedish runes
For Hans Weil, artist and inventorReflections on a chance meeting in Malmo, Sweden, 1997
Speech rinsed itself in the blue halls of SwedenCerulean shadows bloomedFrom the frozen riverLike algae shadow coveredThe cobbles of Gamla Stan,Covered the lids of closing eyesWhich rested in the winterLike stones of forgotten lightBicycles rolled sullenlyIn the distance of their silver limbsMittens braced hands which disappearedInto their dark fingered depthsA bridge of frozen soundsPulsed in the limping skyThe sun's dim light gazed in an echo of its splendourUpon the face of a fading wallAll is hidden now behind the pane of seven years of glassDissolving slowly in the softened blazeOf the poem's quiet lensThrough the drift a figure walks upon the silent airShadows climb and singWithin the stones of the old cathedralWithin the darkness floats the cryptSweden's tomb of forgotten KingsThe battle plain for blades of night and the shafts of wintry morningThe winds of Lund swirl upon the cobblestonesThe sky arches its bow of gentle rainThe frozen lips of mythPart in the approaching gloomTo whisper in the ear of shadowStolen from the figure walking through the driftThe shelter is as cold as iceAnd I am lost in the maze of streetsHead bared and fearful in a town of hidden songsStumbling in the cloak of darknessThe river stares from its soft fluorescent mirrorA winding road of tinted glassObscured in the fuming etherBreath is an audible scale of blue steam risingAnd fingers search in the darkness for a sign of themselvesFound, lostBlack plastic ripples in the windLike the waves of the cindered seaThe bed of the distant maresWed to the horse of the streaming deepThe hour has not been sung when the blazing mares will riseFor now it is the well of the stallion's drifting liesWhich hold in the palm of MalmoThe secrets of illusion,The anonymous poet of holographic truthFor whom language is and was and will be'The anonymous masterpiece',Created by all and owned by noneThe feather of his stepWalks into meA child of wonder peeling glintsOf bird-like laughterRuffling through the books of shelvesAnd pressing a promise of youth's returnWhich sailed through shadows away ...I have found the street, and burn with a fever