Once upon a time I used to write a lot of poetry. My first published book in Sweden was a collection of poetry, followed by another two collections. But that was a long time ago. However, these last few years I’ve been fiddling with words here and there, and lately I’ve been trying to gather up the ones I think are good enough. For what purpose? I’m not quite sure yet. But there is a collection slowly coming together, and here is one of the poems that I keep coming back to.

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Grandmother

These hands, so tired, resting on the windowsill.

Early spring outside,
light blue sky:
that which does not seek the darkness,
but still finds it.

My memory fluttering
like a table cloth on the table outside,
like a curtain in the open window
like a white sheet drying on a line
held on by pegs and claws
ripping
but not yet.

Right now, there is only light and colour:
pinkredgold streaks of sun
woven into sky, fraying edges:
that which does not seek the darkness
but still finds it.

This time and place,
so frail and brittle,
blue veins, slender bones barely covered.
So little is left
so little of you
so little strength
so little time
just a little more to take.

Then night
cool and pale
like a freshly pressed sheet
white
pulled over skin.

These hands
rested on the loom for a little while:
life was spun,
wound into skeins,
woven into patterns.
Batten and lathe
yarn and warp
wool and linen

These hands
opened
as the eye closed:
that which does not seek the darkness
and does not find it.

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This poem can be found in my book ‘Cuts & Collected Poems 1989 – 2015’.

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