Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Le plat pays

With the North Sea as its last frontier, and sand dune waves stopped in by ocean waves, and waves on the rocks as the tide retreats,  and whose heart is always at low tide. With an infinity of mists ahead and the east wind holding you in, the flat country, that is mine.

With a sky so low that a canal seems lost, a sky so low it makes you humble, the sky so grey that the canals hang, sky so grey that it must be forgiven, with the north wind that rips apart, and the north wind, hear it crack, the flat country, that is mine.

Impossible to capture the rolling syntax, the half-formed imagery, the existential emptiness, and yet, love for this landscape where cathedrals are the nearest you get to mountains, and gargoyles grasping down the clouds, and the passing of days the only journey, and roads of rain the only good night. Listen to the hesitations in the voice and the sudden increasing pace, and the way words repeat - just like the rhythm of waves and rolling clouds, somnolence and savagery, even perhaps a suppressed whiff of prayer.

No comments: