Jan Schreiber

yellow chair
foggy air
at the landing
sit and stare
...

Peace in the house, and in
the distance a high wind.
Move in the web of memory,
neither bound nor free,
...

Through the causeway sluice
the sea pours with the tide.
In rubber thongs I brace
myself for cold and wade
...

Let's start again from the top.
I enter on the third
beat; you have to keep
the bass line firm. It's hard
...

No one knew why he built
a road over a mountain.
It started close to home
and wound through trees, past cliffs
...

The harpsichord
releases sounds
of crystal line,
rapid decay.
...

He builds from local rocks that come to hand -
craggy, irregular, or water-worn -
and guided by a form he has in mind
but nothing like a plan, nothing so stern.
...