It was never a giraffe

Hun er en Brönte-dame

Hun er en Brönte-dame på en bakket hedepost,
med hænderne i siden, udstirrer hun sit fravær.
Skyer løber i årstal under himlens bue,
og hun bliver en impressionistisk lys og skygge anretning

Omkring stoute ben bølger hendes kjoles lys
med duften af lyng og firskåren distance
hun har stadig et par bakker at bestige
og jeg sender hende afsted med et Virginia Woolf blik
ned langs min skarpe næse

Vi kan mødes i en sal af nye drømme
måske -
når vi begge har været et par rensende ture
igennem afstandens lande

Instead

At the other side of the pond - she sit with her legs wide apart
All dressed in black as is the pond

Her arms are resting at her legs - one hand are holding her chin
and she stares at me with blind blackness

she is caught in there
in there, in her blackedness - kind of sorrow or

has she overnight become
a troll - with hatred burdens

I don't feel any urge  - to swim that water
because I see

a green Forrest in the distance  - just a brim
before the ocean of lights

That's where I will go instead