Amsterdam Poem by jean maudit

It's as though windmills
had spun a bris marine
to billow autumn like a galleon
over the waves of the park,

the city's still life brushed
by the hand of a Dutch Master,
probably Rembrandt.
The burnished copper

of coins glows in the windows
of shops, dark houses
and a ship that is creaking
like a forest in the mist.

The craquelure of a painting
spreads across pavements,
buildings and sky, the heart
cracking like a dry leaf.