Two haikus
by Bengt O Björklund
there’s a lonely bird
perched on top of the old tree
old age in the wind
streaks of bright yellow
drifts in early September
this birch talks to me
***
it was the first day of September
the sea salt salesman lingered
in the grey afternoon with his pockets
full of gulls and terns screaming
at the surf rolling heralding the storm
who will be the bait today
the sacrificial worm impaled in silence
morning tolls with squid and bells
melted into the resounding ore
there is history in that old rock
where paleontologists still can hear
snails and ammonite singing
in school stairways slowly erased
by clouds of small feet
***
there are thin men brittle to the winds
silently hoisting paper flags that will burn
their broken skulls since long empty
turning in a rotten whirlpool on Sunday mass
hear the old women mumbling
their knees on long driftwood stools
rattling their dead bone dry prayer beans
to the demolition drums of war
the tide will turn and birds will pray
in silence and grave apprehension
a murky shadow blasphemy ignition
will set the whole world on fire
***
time to fetter the phantoms and the dead
to nail their faint pulse to the floor
where no wind will dance in silence
where I will creak and break and sing
to the ghosts of living much too late
I see shadows on the move
setting sail and turning dying
into an art of blasphemy
curb the mad king dead to the sea
rein the froth and all his tales of sorrow
burning like birds or lizards or dust
before his dark pompous thrust
that only empty men can hear and heed
***
there are birds in our memories
making noise as we meet the day
wings that beat against our inner straw
lining the aging and the lack of days
burning like a forest fire
at times we like sparrows chirping
in the bushes outside the church
with our small hearts of longing and loss
chirp chirp
to funerals and chimes
birds will fly and birds will claw
tears will be like beady eyes
and we will cry and we will hear
gentle doves and marble days
coincide with sand and water