Treasure Island

Herbert Nehrlich

(04 October 1943 / Germany)


The hay was, finally
all on the wagon,
the horses resting
and a storm announced
its imminent arrival.

The boss, a relative,
had gone ahead
steering the other one,
by tractor power.

We were so overheated,
and Gina was my cousin,
but something which,
I am so positive,
had been created in a rare
but clever cooperation
between the devil
and our God,
it was an overwhelming,
a devastatingly
and irresistibly musical
and kinaesthetic hue
that sprang at me,
like spiderwebbed
arabic gum .

It melted me
and when the flash of
lightning came,
with mother thunder
chasing him
across the skies,
I very slowly,
and with a delicious
and exquisite ease,
supported by
small trembles
of a mortal fear
which was
just pure adrenalin,
in concert with
the orchestra
of all my hormones,
I persevered,
and stayed,
put, as they say.

It was too heavenly
to think or blink,
there in the fragrant hay,
of which it is
by knowing oldsters,
said that it will,
slowly but without
much mercy
kill unless you go
back to your world
and leave those
undue dreams
and all licentious thoughts
behind you.

We stayed.
The rain did ruin
the hay, oh damn,
but both new friends
by being flashy
and full of thunder,
did help, not hinder.

Today, I was reminded
when a storm
stopped by
to say 'remember'.

It made me think
all day
of my sweet cousin
I must write.

Submitted: Friday, August 12, 2005
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