Skeletal spring with designer’s table

       Sylt island, north coast of Germany

A frame like a skeleton
holds up the clear slab
in my living room
with the tea cups on top.

The porcelain’s silvery shimmer
is separated like a ghost
from the limbs of cast iron
beneath the partition

in this hour of gloaming.

Spatterings of green
are on the march outside
like a child army
across the pale grass dunes,
while the wind stirs
in the young tufts of hair.

A jet plane flies
slap bang into a region that is dreamed –

but carries on flying.

Stones packed in rows
fleck into the shallows.
This is how the order
of existence gets stacked:
first, bacteria;
then flight patterns of birds,
and later
unseen runways sung
by infinitesimal quantum light specks.

A handful of knitting needles
glimmer in the basket
of a small harbour

and the flat ocean
inches out to the horizon
like batter in a pan;

it seasonally floods an island nearby
till only the knoll with houses
in the middle is left,

a “Zion on high”
wherefrom the tide pulls back like drapery:

the perished day below
and a new world above

the dividing line
by Mies van der Rohe.