-in winter-
This is beginning, this splintering
of glass, that silver blank lies under
our feet. All is passed and new, nothing
but a coast, repeating tides, spread birds,
light and shadow over veiled dunes.
It snows, grey and white are melting
in air and water, day and evening and
our shadow in a procession of sledge
dogs, panting as the sea. So we draw a track
of their reins and our words are the mist
of their tongues. Timeless island. A moment
all drifts down in which it seems we are
floating. How gulls eternally rock on wind
or nothing hurts them, what washes ashore
nevertheless slips away in sea.