Three degrees

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There is no poetry here, no words or art that might reconcile, bring comfort. No west wind that harbours the thought of spring deep within its cold gaze.

There is only withdrawal, sheltering, a kind of bewilderment, a startled recognition of what our hands have sown. It's too late, the dark forests are dwindling, the Roding runs dry by the hour waiting for the moon to turn, and with it the invisible weight that will reach our shores, leading to a surge and the flooding of the land, with no renewal on what was leased to us.

The brief life we have, only artificially illuminated by electric lights. Myself, a flickering 'I', a blue light in the glass.    

Every grain of soil of known lineage, well connected...

But us, our loves, dust. All our bridges floating now. Turn your face to me in the grey morning. We are shades of one another. This, the only breath we have so let the weight grow in your heart. Think now. Settle your heart. If I could name it, I would. 

Everyone is on the move today. Perhaps they've seen the future, a future with no past. You, with your Jewish hat, are in prime position to find your way back. 

If nothing shines no more then is it only the memory of star that holds you rapt? What brings me this way today? And now, on this dark journey, carried by silver and star and reflection.

In the time that remains, do we seek forgiveness and who would listen? Why, raven, is your tongue so bittersweet?

{words by Anselm Hollo and Ted Hughes}