The day was clear
the birds were on their way north.
We were three
we walked on the ice
shot long-tails, eider and goldeneyes.

Black-tarred our boat
we took it with us
we rowed between the shining plains of ice.
The morning´s water was sun
the day was hunting-day.

Bird hunters we were
three were our names.

We had names then.

***

When the ice-fields break each spring
and long cracks run through them
they sing -

no not the ice, but the crack sings
and on silent days over the sea
there´s the sound of wings.

Wings none in sight
but wings heard

just before the crack widens
and a grave shows.

***

The crack was sudden
we were too slow in seeing it
too late we saw our lot.

The one of us furthest from the boat:
Bloody hell, he screamed,
It´s breaking, it´s breaking!
The boat - get to the boat!

The boat we had just left
slid away from us now in the widening crack.
We had lingered much too long
absorbed in eider flight
line of fire, lust of the hunt.

Flame-green the water at the ice-edge
blackening quickly into the deeps.

The black tarred boat, two oars
food bag, boots, and birds we´d already shot.
The boat - so light to drag over the ice.

We squatted, on the point of leaping
over the churning blackness.
We stopped, held back from the leap
thought that further away perhaps
the crack might be narrower

it seemed so, we scrambled there
but already it was too wide.
We ran, waved our arms
no-one dared to jump,
no-one dared to swim through the icy cold.

Our hesitation lasted too long
there was no hesitation in the crack.

Paralysed we stood there
grasped nothing. Grasped, didn´t grasp
death was not yet in sight
it was waiting a second more.

Iron blows we heard inside the ice
and through the air
sounding like joiners planing wood -
we had thought it was the ice singing.

Terror´s blossoms opened full
shivering hit us, weeping was close
the evening was close
soon we should have turned home.

No-one saw us, no-one heard us from the shore
the cries that were brushed away by the wind.
Heaven saw us but didn´t move
we saw how death wrote our names there.
The ice saw us
the waiting water saw us
set on our hands the mark of the doomed.

***

Eagles were seen earlier that winter
they sat far out on the ice
like deposed princes awaiting their own death
they fed on hunger
they hacked bits of carrion from the ice
and crowned themselves with the longest night.

***

And our eyes glistened with terror
and our tongues were stiff like fish-tongues
and far off rested the sea-gull
with eyes colder than a hawk´s
accustomed to living on fish
and other things that have died in the sea.

The wild leap
the wild hope
the wild cry beyond the cry.

But a hope of rescue for us
would raise only laughter
but there´s no laughter here either.
Far out at sea there´s never any laughter.

And then it was dark
and then there was nothing more
and then the water was
and the water was the last thing
and beyond the water there was nothing more.

***

Of those who sink
of those who build a living-place
on the bottom,
of the improbable in the ravines down there
of the journey there

without memory and before their birth
they build there their new boats.

***

We were carried down in the sun´s lower circles
already deep below the roof of ice
our screams washed away
in distant echoes still heard
before the new moon arrives
and more transparent than jelly-fish
we received the sound of the water´s bells.

As when someone new-born
leaves their home and is carried into the visible
where their name is given and their sex confirmed
we were carried here to the furthest away
where no names and no sex
and no other distinguishing features
count any longer.

***

And so the first evening fell
the evening when the ice broke.
Grey the landscape, the houses sunk in grey
grey the blood, grey the sorow.

Spread over the ice in black glistening fans
the released water,
ice gnawed at ice, gurgling could be heard
when white fields were cracked by the wind.

And so the night fell where no joy was possible
the lights gleaming in the windows
where no sleep was possible either
red lines branched across the whites of eyes
the hours became the bodies of wraiths
wrapped in grey
drenched in the dark
no-one tasted the bread, no-one ate of the meat.

The cape of sorrow was spread over the night
”Hell” someone called in hate with clenched hands.
”God, my God” someone prayed
the wailing persisted till dawn.
The wind gave no answer
the ice-floes gave no answer.
Grey the blood, grey the sorrow
grey the roses of death.

Far out a boat is drifting, no-one in it
the ice is eating at it already.

***

The outstretched necks of the birds
the long necks
the narrow and the green velvety ones.
Fiery red the morning sun
and the ice is breaking.

The painted wings of the long-tailed duck
burn in the sun
wing-beats, the spiralling of down
not yet caught up with by lead-shot
stroke them
fine down against the trembling finger-tips
above the breaking ice.

The watchful pupils of the goldeneyes
dark crystals
mirrored in the water - the water being mirrored.

Swirling bodies, swirling winds
and when a cry breaks out
ice against blood warmed by the sun
is heard over the water - is heard below the water
plays in the evenings and in the mornings.
Cries of the birds
sharp pointed wings of the birds.

***

If only it were morning
and our death marked by the sun
if only we heard farm-dogs barking
though there are no dogs out here.

If only the marsh crows we always hear
at this season had come
not to rescue us but just to keep us company.

If only a late aurora borealis could be seen.

***

That night the sea-swell
was high mountains of a great evil
pouring through the world
they sharpened themselves to heavy knives
before the age of iron.

But they were not driven by evil
they were before the age of evil
it was only us who thought them evil.
They were knives out of the all-devouring night
that slashed through any hint
of a human face.

The stars watched over them
the fish listened to them deep down
the stones heard them in their hiding-places
when they slashed through the world.

***

With the letters of the water writing
the alphabet which only the water reads

going down to the seabed
and writing there the names of those
who once owned the palms of hands

and the current that will flow
before anything is written out:
the water that perpetually wipes away
the water that perpetually lets the names
glimmer once more in the eyes of the waves.

On walls of sorrow
the water builds its transparent roof.

***

The water that talks in its sleep
follows the course of the drowned
talks through night after night
hides what the day can find:
rib, rudder and oar.
The eel swims past but doesn´t break its journey
the eye of the cod keeps watch
everything is sucking mouths.

The water hides its eye
fills its mouth with slime
stares as if blind at the path of those who sink.

If tonight a cry
should be heard again in the storm
it would be the mouths of the water
it would be the cry of the water

it would be the nightmare´s cry
it would be the cry of failing plumage
sunk and blighted in the water.

The water that talks in its sleep, writes in lead
consolation no-one can decipher.

***

And we who speak here
are speaking not with our accustomed tongue
nor with that of the fish -
the water gave us another voice.

It´s growing dark around us
more than the darkness would admit.

Drawn down we were deeper and deeper
heavier and heavier carried to closed rooms
and a sleep that would last and last.
Beds of another sort than those we´d slept in
stood ready to receive us
with another softness and another sleep.

And the sea-cow bellows
her milk is enough for us all
and the beehives on the seabed
are full of the ocean bees´ honey
and the butterflies flickering let
the different seasons exchange colours
entranced as they are by both summer and winter.

We have space enough to walk in
have nights enough to sleep through
we have sweetness enough for our tongue.
The memory is still burning:
the day clear, the birds on their way north.

***

And when the water
forced through our mouths
and when we opened ourselves
to the sea
and the sea was in us.

When we were like fish
and as far as could be imagined
from the beauty of fish.

But beauty doesn´t count
on such a journey
- not that beauty
and time doesn´t count
- not that time.

***

The sea-weed
the sea-hair
water of the sea-cries

and the goldeneyes rising from the seabed
with their green crests.

***

Having taken in water
we glided to the seabed
the seabed whispered to us.

The air would no longer give us its life
but the water received us
drew us
like downward spiralling coils of smoke.

With hair spread out we sank
and with arms stretched out.
Our weight was other than above water
our weight became our lightness
we were among the slanting gliding things
like eggs
we were sinking
towards a nest.

We turned in the water
with the whites of our eyes towards the surface
from where the sun would come
if evening had not already come -
though the sun would no longer allure us.

***

We remembered the potatoes in opened furows
and the blue vanishing earthworms
we remembered the gulls swirling over

the wren
and the gathered sprays of caraway

the salt on the table we remembered
the frail birch leaves opening

the dreaming of women´s breasts, summer nights
and the skin´s heat against the sheets.

***

Changed into animals
into fish-animals, into cow-anímals
we grazed the sea´s meadows
and were carried further and further away.

Changed into crow-animals
and into the eagles we used to see on the ice,
changed into nibbling rodents
and below the lowest seabed
we were carried further and further on
towards a huge
a heavy heart.

We thought we were free
we were there where we were not.
We were there.

Call for a new name
a name no-one knows
whispered the waves to us
those moving high above our faces.
And nightmares which were quenched in winter
and waited to be kindled next autumn
also whispered.

We called then and became the call
that runs through the backs of the waves
winter as well as summer.
We became the gull´s wings.

***

We continue circling downwards
the algae which never shone before
shines now like phosphorous
in the dreams which are before what is seen
and after.

The green shimmering feather that follows.

Then we drank oblivion
and approached oblivion´s threshold.

We spread our nets as before
and they are the nets of oblivion.

We love as before
and our women are the women of oblivion
they look at us with eyes moist
from lust or from tears
and they say:
you are the men of oblivion.

***

On land the houses lie
like dead birds they sit on the dead eggs.

Round those who sank are high green halls
water swirling against water
among the mouths of fish.

On land is sorrow, it wraps round itself
its grey shawl.

There´s a notion that the dead
suck the breasts of the unborn.

***

The hours came, drawn from the salt
not the salt from the sea but the salt of sorrow
and the bread given us
we couldn´t eat.

The dreams came by night and took us close
to the land of madness
and in more contempt we were given dreams
about the life that was.
Moments of brief drowsing
when nothing we remembered reached us whole.

If we walked on the fields the peewit had come
the fields, the peewit we didn´t know.

Pale shrivelled feathers
were given us in sleep and in waking
plucked from birds whose flesh was already eaten
the waves hacked like teeth at our ankles.
The sun scorched
the day was quite without shadow
the rain that came
was water from the hair of the drowned.

***

And the swallows which already in autumn
move to the seabed
to drink the winter
open their eyes and meet us.

They whisper:
last night the ice broke
did you hear the singing crack?
already now the warmth of summer is coming
and we shall fly back.

They move their wings
and smile as swallows do.

Like ships we drift over the seabed
filled wih water
we see our ribs and the heart that stopped
our eyes we see as warped globes
and the feet we walked with
and the hands we grasped with
and the mouths that sucked lust and love
they move away from us
we owned them for a while
in due time they´ll be dissolved by the water
and they shall be the water.

We turn into ships
and the swallows smile in their sleep.

***

When the ice broke
the last joy of our summers broke
we are shrinking
carried half in sleep ever further away
from what we thought was our life.

We hear a fog-horn through the mist
but no voices we know reach us.

A membrane has grown
between us and the trees when they blossom
now as before
everything is as before
and nothing is as before.

We pluck the apples in autumn
we gather them in baskets
but don´t know what they taste like.
We remember summer´s white nights as torment
and the cuckoo´s call of comfort
becomes a call of death.

We write names
but the paper has gone white.

***

It´s not really the return
we hope for any longer
that a face eroded by water
no longer a human´s
should show itself.

What then is our hope?
it is beyond hope yet still is waiting.

The waves speak of a wind from the south-west
then comes summer
the golden plover lays its eggs
and in calm weather we may catch a glimpse
of the salmon´s twisted jaw.

We expect no return.
Sorrow´s ropes have tethered us year after year.
Will they never snap?
No, they´ll never snap.

The net pennants show the wind slackening
and what we wait for
is beyond hope and beyond waiting.

***

We still hold memories of the aurora borealis
from that winter
and now the new winter
and the sunsets sparkling in the frost
as wild now as then.

The fish we catch and land
from the ice-holes
terrify us
they take away the words as we eat them.

We eat another bread than that night
we eat still of the same bread
we bake it of dead days
it has no taste.
We learned silence after just the first summer
but neither does silence satisfy
at last even tears have no taste.

We see the crack when it opens.

For months we walked in search
but nothing drifted ashore:
no boot, no oar, still less did we find
a hand
a heart
an eye.

How can we hear the voice the water swallowed?

***

We who lived for long by the water
who missed for long those who sank
know that the water has no songs
but the water´s own lament.

We who weep
we weep as long as there is weeping
at last the drugs of sleep and oblivion
do their work on us.

Setting sun
protect us from mild hands
and comfort that gives no comfort.

Oblivion´s butterfly velvet smooth on the wing
but with a poisonous sting beneath.
For the water owns no songs.

***

Sun come - sun go
frost come - frost go.

Summer and winter still come
to us they don´t come back.

Water come - water turn
wind come - wind go

to us they still don´t come back.

Goldeneyes come - goldeneyes turn
boat come - boat go.

Goldeneyes and boat come still
to us they don´t come back.

***

Long afterwards the water was clear blue
with shades of green

boats set out from land, sought back to land
fish weighed down the nets.

***

We sank and with us sank time
our bodies filled with not only water
oblivion was given to our memory
and drew us to the bottom
for a while our names followed us
but when time gave way, they too gave way.

In the mouldering where we were once
before names were given
and round us were the mouths of fish.

But nothing of what we tell
have we ever told
we are in death´s land
and we have nothing to tell from there.

The words are put in our mouths
how we were drawn deeper and deeper
and reached the kingdom of oblivion
where the cattle of oblivion grazed
and we drank the milk of oblivion.

Late at night we reached the coast that sings
snow was falling
the song was oblivion´s song
sweet as honey it met our lips
as when man sinks in woman
and woman in man.

Sailed on - and the ice breaks
rowed on - saw long-tails, eiders and goldeneyes,
our eyes burst, our lips burst
we were driven on and on
the greenery of algae became our sail.
The eagle gave us its eye.

It was the journey down to our death
that is what has been told here.
Of the land of death and our days there
we have nothing to tell.

***

Birds which were not birds
flocked in to the coast
their breasts were ripped by lead shot
in their eyes too there were holes.

They flew against the windows
they wanted in where the humans were.

***

We sank not
as our dead had sunk
in sorrow´s water we had for long
been swept downward.

At times the shore became a pier for us
where we waited beyond waiting.

From the bottom of the winds
which is even deeper than the water´s
we heard voices -
they were whispering to us.

***

Whether one year had passed or many -
that spring a wagtail arrived.

It alighted at the field´s edge
we saw it
it brought no greeting from the dead
but it was alive as we are alive.

The clear air turned even clearer
we saw our life.
A dread, it was.

Sorrow grieves in us -
will we some day see it
as the wagtail looked at us?

***

Where the oar belonged is forgotten
if it were found it would be so splintered
that no coast could be traced here
still less a name.

No memories of eider and goldeneye.

The oar belonging to the water.
The oar belonging to No-one.