barefoot in the kitchen
sunbeams tickling feet
in the quiet summer morning
poems are not weapons
perhaps more like a cup of hot coffee
carefully carried outside
to catch the early light
”I am a little worried
because I am being warned by intelligence
that this
or the next night
may not be completely
peaceful”
here no clouds in the sky
days of clear skies, nights with thunder
”at night heavy rains
sometimes explosions mixed with thunder,
and occasionally not completely clear
whether it is the sky and thunder or explosions”
me on the porch looking up
cirrus clouds
two ospreys
whistling
soaring
on the outer skerries
sunset in my back
looking into the open sky
on the rounded cliff
facing south-east
Baltic horizon
watching out for drones
investigations
“I don’t remember when it wasn’t urgent”
nearby explosions
three arctic terns chasing each other
diving from high, down close
and screeching
first twilight stars
clouds moving low
over the lake and the island
“you live in a country
where you can safely look at the sky
and don't need to react
to air raid alerts 24/7”
I sit on the porch
looking at stratus clouds
a slight wind
rustling the aspens
rain in my face
streaks of wind shattering the calm water
my small rowboat drifting in the gusts
“in the latest attacks
the aggressor started using missiles
that penetrate concrete fortifications”
reeds swaying
above debris on the bottom
at dawn
the song thrush counting notes
atop a high spruce
and the shimmer
of a robin
somewhere
behind the cabin
“on my way to work
I walked past a burning gas station
that had been hit by a missile
there are also many civilian casualties”
first thing
I wash my hands
and splash my face
water from the lake
still coming
out of the tap
Sitting behind my house
sheltering from the wind
with thirsty mosquitoes
“there was another air raid at night,
still heavy until morning
rumors circulating about another serious attack
we saw a lot of equipment on the borders again
so we need to stock up on provisions and medicines”
it's surprisingly quiet today
except the large aspens
beside my house
new leaves
trembling
in the fresh westerly wind
and fir cones
puffing clouds of pollen
sometimes mistaken
for forest fires