A furious wind screams in across the Baltic,
Winter’s raging farewell that cuts clean to the bone.
Crows scythe through the air, scanning for mussels,
While decaying munitions dream beneath the churning grey
And the Gustloff lies at sleep.
Halyards yammer against poles on the Strand, as the flags,
Wrapped round and round and round,
Cling on for dear life.
Yet blossoms still prick through the eye of the storm,
And a sheen of green can just be seen caressing the skeletal trees.
Two and a half thousand kilometres south east
It is a different storm and a different spring.
There, fire is in flower and blood blossoms across pavements.
A pall of dust hangs over blasted ruins and
Settles on the charred bodies and cars in the graveyard streets.
Once more, the world wonders where the hatred springs from and
How to make it stop.
Seemingly impotent in the face of the tempest,
Fingers cross with the hope that it will blow itself out
So spring can come once more.
Until the seasons turn again.
4 April 2022
Photo: The Baltic at Travemünde, by the author
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