Texel

-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.