So much is lost, so much forgotten
that once was cherished, once was loved.
And yet some embers still remain
seen by those who still remember.
It overtakes the scene for eyes that aren’t used to see it
and blends into the ambience for those who live beside it.
What was holy is profane,
what profound is now in vain;
times have changed and much is lost,
some is gained but at a cost.
Where we worshipped we shall swear,
where we cried we’ll no more care;
the memories of stones outlast
by far what we know of the past.
Some days I envy the grazing cows.
Just think how calm and how content
they live without a thought or care?
Accept the rain as it may come,
enjoy the sun when it returns
without a worry as to when
the rain might chance to come again.
The darkness and the sunlight.
The water in the heat.
The steam that reach the skies.
The mist that stays beneath.
The world and all its cycles.
The abyss at my feet.
Nature and its miracles;
It’s time for nature’s cleaning;
a piece of slate now cleared.
There’s nothing to be feared
it’s just a page that’s turning.
The feeling, on a summer’s day,
to lay and watch the landscape,
the mixing smells of flowers and hay –
reality’s a great escape.
There’s beauty in disaster
and love can thrive in fear.
What once seemed out of order
today is what’s remembered
and too what has preserved
whatever else was there.
A gentle desolation.
Remains left up to fate.
Light shines through empty windows
and silence is the gate.
Humility be learned
in a place of former glory
when you realize, in ruins,
the place seems yet more holy.
To float along the river
and fight with oars the tide
it was a favourite pastime
of mine – at least for a while.
But looking up the banks
and feel them tower over me
has always made me feel
strangely confined; unfree.
Mock nature all you want;
it’s not as if it cares.
You will be mocked right back
when you meddle in its affairs.
What cares it of our musings,
the lake, as there it lies
in the shadow of its mountain
and rolls its round, moist eye?
Our little, human protests
seem ever more obscure;
but when Nature comes to protests
even politicians care!
Here comes progress! Here comes speed!
Marvel as you see it pass –
all the same, don’t be impressed;
it has not been made to last.
The slopes are lost in mist
and all we see is now and here –
the day will fade to dusk
and youth will age, and leaves will wear…
And yet it seems impossible
that any part of Nature, any place, could die!
But Nature’s seeming standstill that you see
is just a trick that’s played upon your eyes;
your vision blurred by speed; the shortness of our lives.
The end of our journey
is now within our sight.
Exciting or boring,
long or slight
depends alone on vision –
it’s in the eyes that see.
Blame your boredom on no-one;
you’re what you want to be!
Out, blueing in the distance
and paling to my view
a range of tempting mountains
and cool tree-shadows too –
I wish that I could go there
and hide from worldly view,
I wish that I could go there
just to commune with You.
My native ocean under skies
that, nearly overcast now shows
a timid spot of blue that grows
while all the rest in sunrise
is coated yellow, orange too.
Out on the waves I know so well
I see a ship sail past and soon
be hidden there behind the hill
and trees that here
obstruct my view –
my ocean; pale to distant lands
and share with them my
my ocean, like you’ve
sung for me
sing too along your
and add my voice there to
What an evening, what a sunset!
Skies that shine above and brood below
in deepest purple, pink and red
that deepen the ships’ silhouettes –
I’ve stood there too, there on that beach,
admired that same, well-known sea,
watched fire crackle by my feet
and heard the waves come roll to me –
what memories, what memories!
My native ocean calls to me
through canvas, paint and history.
Set sails, steer out and face the sea;
my dream and too my memory –
the darkened waters seen at night
or at ethereal moonlight –
alone out on the silent sea
there lies my heart; there let it be.
A harbour like
the one next to
my childhood home –
behind the masts
of anchored ships
the sunset shone –
I need not see a painting
to see such a scene;
if I just close my eyes I know
I’ll visit in a dream –
the only difference in-between
is masts and sails,
propellers and machines.
Leant over, looking out –
appreciate the view!
I know I cannot order you
(through two whole centuries) thereto
but “see!”, the ocean beckons you;
it draws you like it draws me too.
trees and Earth;
the land, the sky,
the wind; the leaves
that fall and re-appear,
the grasses fade then flower too
but you? You still stand there
Pavillon, where they planted you;
there you look on awaiting times
when paintings stuck on other walls
shall be the only remnant left of you.
The midday shadow falls on walls
that’s weathered both by time
by nature and the hands of Man.
The empty windows oversee
the yellow summer grass and trees
from height whereunder we
inevitably end up feeling small
and times we haven’t known
won’t make us feel young
but rather old.
A midday heat-haze blurs my gaze;
now all is still and mind is free
to daze beneath the birch tree
like in a childhood memory.
Appearing out of fog
a boat approaches land –
a common sight to Danish eyes
that, from the distant strands
in greeting wants to raise a hand.
Do not approach the hill
whereon the oak trees grow;
there underneath the stones
and underneath the snow
is resting unknown people
from times left far behind;
mind say: “it’s safe to go there,”
heart: “you’re out of your mind!”
A misty morning – sunrise glows
on mist and clouds and overspills
on this one hilltop with its rocks and trees
as morning mist is torn by morning breeze.
I made a drawing years ago
where I stood, back towards the viewer
facing a cloud-covered sea;
how strange then to discover
such long time afterwards that I
had lost by well 200 years
and that the motif wasn’t mine…
Curling branches, barren twigs
outlasting seasons’ changes –
mist and snow and weathered walls
and weathered gravestones
under evening’s ill-foreboding skies
could never outlast you, oak trees,
you stood there long before them and
long after their time
you’ll probably still stand.
A weathered, nature-tempered rock
adorned by mosses, crowned with trees
stretching stiffened branches out to reach
the top that is withheld from reach –
A wonder to remember that
the treetops came and went and were
returned to their original state;
by technology transferred
when half the painting had been lost –
a piece of nature although not
made by entirely natural ways.
There is a grim foreboding
of which I cannot speak
although I should –
there are no words
for knowledge I have gained
although I would –
I’d speak if words would come
and tell the truth; the sentiment
of dread and fear
that sometimes overpowers me
with certain symbols
placed in front of me.
Majestic rising in the distance,
clouds and tower competition
won by birds above however,
the golden skies
with a cry for day’s
tired wandering now home,
through approaching dark that broods
high above and
down below alike;
two wanderers in nature’s solemn mood.
Some fading stripes of sunset stays
as sun has left and moon arisen –
behind the gate of memory waits
your face till life’s completion.
A reverential gesture to the light
that warms the heart
and keeps it warm through day and night alike
and light it up with more than sunbeams’ might –
A flock of ravens settled all around
yet you, sole figure, rooted in the ground
remain a solitary sight
as all around descends the night.
We‘ve watched as earth and sky, the sun and air would blend
and yet the unity of things
is something that we fail to comprehend.
What matters it
that you could climb
a mountaintop to see the view
if what is in your mind
remains a mystery to you?
True wisdom is to understand
that mind and matter
are the same;
that you’re the same as sky and land –
quite in vain.
Silence at dusk, reverential stillness
as night descends with the sun’s last kiss –
darkness will soon overcome the moment;
how could you capture this moment’s bliss?
Pine trees sticking out of mist
as floating in the air –
silence only met by birdsong
hovers everywhere –
sunrise on the water,
burning banks and sky –
a breeze will soon disturb it all,
the morning die –
the sound of paddling on the water,
smell of chimney smoke –
sensations of the highest art
the land awoke.
Through the gorge and into the hills,
the steep cliffs rise with
as silent witnesses to the scene.
A fellow of theirs
lies dead in the gorge,
they pay homage
with their silence.
To such a sight I’d gladly wake
yet I fear that if I were to do
my mind would be dulled by the dreamlike view
and my senses disappear and fade
with the distant mountains and the morning dew…
A master-sky of brushstrokes
and a lonely, thoughtful tree –
what an expressive demonstration;
I see you and I see me,
I see an artist’s soul in nature’s imagery.
Wall of clouds – I see you though
arise behind it –
torn by horizons seem the world,
yet ships transcend them;
I see them come towards you
as you rise to be
adored, above the cloud-wall
and beyond the sea –
sail on your way; sail moon
one way – ships; sail the other way,
and meet again somewhere
beyond my view
as invisible horizons will obstruct it…
well, that is nothing new.
Temporal things destroy temporal things
and what remains?
The ice that sank the boat will melt
and both remain as nothing
but their names.
Glitter, ocean, through the dark
and lighten up the sky
like you were lit by moonlight
caused by sunlight out of sight –
can’t you two, sky and ocean,
spare some light for me as well
through this dark night?
I see it not yet see it –
see the effects it makes
on sky and waves;
though I only really see a faint
pale light as out of nowhere
(like the fire of pale foam-bursts
telling me a reef is there but out of sight)
yet sun, you hide and I then wait
for you to show yourself instead.
Decay and transformation;
the world is based on these
as much as on creation
and therefore life must cease
and be restored in cycles
that we cannot explain
wherefore we make these stones;
so something does remain.
The gate is hanging,
walls are weathered;
nature takes its toll
as time goes by.
Yet memories are told
on every stone behind the wall,
on every one of the inscriptions –
that is all there is left
when the rest has transitioned.
The ground that greets you welcomes you
and why shrink back?
You have lived off of it throughout your life;
you’ll have to pay it back.
Why waste your life in fear
of something ever near?
I only ever once saw
one other painting which
by sheer technique
would move me
as much as this;
I didn’t come to see it
but there it was;
and admiration caught me
while off guard;
These fluent handled brushstrokes,
all the tones of brown and green,
the highlights, shadows; they evoke
a simple beauty like I’d never seen.
Evening falls upon the marsh
and sun sinks down behind the clouds;
a bluish belt on the horizon
over which the light still shows
Through reflections of the sunset
sails a boat that’s bound for home
while the trees’ dark silhouettes
upbear the sky’s colourful dome.
On the side it lies as if at rest after the voyage
and it seems so calm and peaceful –
were it not that I have learnt
in quite as hard a way as this ship
that the sea is treacherous
I should believe that it had fallen from the sky
all by itself –
And the moon shines and the water’s still
in calmest night
with not a member of the crew
anywhere in sight –
Goodbye dear mountains, valleys;
you landscapes I have known.
I’ll leave you since I must
and attend now to my own.
Beauty clad in all those hues
of brown – from dark to pale –
I trust you’ll wait for my return;
meanwhile I’ll pen my tale.