Utrecht

Unknown with passing away, she put

already the city, colour, sound in her

child bag for later, picture, story.

Round the cathedral, eternal

wake up, is the yeast in ditches

of her head, along embankments of

time, stones of lifetimes long ago.

No bridge to language any more, 

somebody fell in water, a servant shouted,

or is this imagination of bowing houses?

Seriously nodding under heaving boats,

they conserve a story or more by images

in shadow of rest in a city of all, of old.