Till min bror
on the shore of Skummeslövsstrand, my brother
picks up a seashell, says you can tell how old they are
based on the rings; like a tree. den här, he exclaims,
är antingen två eller hundra eller nånstans däremellan.
this one is either two or a hundred
or somewhere in-between.
the laugh that escapes from us all is so bright
it shimmers, despite the clouds closing in.
a beacon of knowledge, indeed.
as he tosses it into the sea, I think he is right
to say it still. he always knows when to lift
a mood; hold it up like a seashell
for us all to see, share it with vigour.
often, I think he is a lighthouse;
creating pockets of something that glimmers
like joy through clouds.
