33. Winter train in Thüringen
(region in former East Germany)
First posted in a Dutch version, December 2018

In its decline, the sun
rolls along the rim of the hill.
Strokes her shoulder and side
down into the thigh
of the valley, where
in the rounding of the rill
she draws her glistening.

Shabby, decrepit, crippled
remains of factories, beaten,
slink along the track,
incongruous doggerel.
Broken timber frame, cracked ribs,
the fill spills out. Cadavers
overwhelmed by graffiti.

The grid of the forest stutters the light.

Vertically, a red wall, a bony birch,
empty, deserted, a church.
Horizontally, a dark sweep of earth, decked
by white that no longer melts,
hardens in the fall of  frost.
Light ripened to orange,
burning to purple. 

The sun topples over the ridge.

A slight of light that lingers,
glitters still, high
above the dark below, reflected
on lines of jet exhaust.
Pipe the sleeves of sky,
illuminated, pink, converge
on the horizon, point to the fall.

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