29 April 2018

From the happy harbor
of Harlingen,
ten-oared dorries
chop the water
during the Sloepenrace
to Terschelling,
dune-sculpted isle
anchored in the sea
by a wood of pine;
eye of an isle
looking up at the sky,
eye filled with the sight
of polders, salt marshes, cattle,
(They know about cattle
at the Oerol.)
sight, the sea clouds,
or clears, depending
on its mood swings.
Hamlets named Hee,
Hoop, Kaart
sound as though names
Gulliver might have come across
in his surreal travels.
Herring grey, lies the sea,
Delft blue, the sky,
oars flashing in the cloud-speckled
sunlight, rays of which fall
on the rowers sheened with sweat,
the race and the wind
one.

Philip Kuepper
(27 January 2018)