Keith McFarlane

Marken Island, North Holland

We walk the round of cloud and light
on cobbled banks that stretching out
enclose a small and ordered space,
divide the waters from the land.
It’s wind defines this place, creates
an absence of all other sounds
but wave and water’s murmuring.
This is a place of birds, whose ragged
chevrons break, then settle one by one
upon this built and empty space.

As if our very selves were bound
by geometries of earth and stone,
though each in flight becomes the wind,
becomes the waters’ suck and flow.
As if the air were not enough,
nor heart in steady surge to fuel
that glimpse of timelessness
where self, encircled wall and line,
is breached, and ocean, flooding in,
dissolve this crowded loneliness.