the wind from the land
was searing
yet the Waddenzee
was misty sultry
two masted barques struggled
the islands lost 
somewhere
out there
the skies 
gathering black on grey
so I walked to Midlum
a church 
and a huddle of houses
set out in the fen

as I sat on the side
of the sheltering ditch
to write this
for you
the reeds
wave and bend
in salutation 
to the all
pervasive dominance
of the gathering gale

the rain is storming
down on Harlingen
perhaps time
to move on

along a quiet lane
not far from the Mennonites
I found shelter
in a graveyard
surrounded by water
the tall trees
took the wind
if not the rain away
in the middle
by a tiny chapel
and a synagogue
were memorials
to those who died
not that long ago
Dutch, Fries, 
Hebrew, English

I read those 
I could read
but stopped the longest 
at the shortest
no name
no age
no nationality
no rank
no gender

the rain stopped
but not in me