I do not know but their giant rustling seems as news of centuries; the water
carries Baltic lore under their imaged shapes.
In Thomas Mann country trees flourish to rich height, their drink the lakes, their food alluvium of aeons; their multiplicity of birds seem not to sleep in June for, wakeful, you hear them cheep the short night, chutter until quick light when, transcendently,
they celebrate -an energy of joy, unique.
A generous place: portions pile your plate.
In the Saturday square a travelling troupe mimes
a parody to medieval instruments. Hard by, a simmer of smoked sausages, a row of mustards-all hot
in a cool June. You eat yours funnelled in bread
by the cathedral wall, decide to move southwards.
The canal stems villages, buildings flower either side; gardens replicate symmetry, the irregular has, it seems,
no countenance in this land: dawn hears workers on their scheduled way to responsible field or city hours. Plan
and produce, a positive programme. Sunday, in a burst of shrubs, the timbered tiny church. Pulled by its age,
you enter, notice dates, variety of ancient patterning
on wood, hand-painted; the brushed and tailored gathering. You stay to hear. Later, in your white bed, wakeful
as the night-long chutter in the trees, you keep seeing
that savage passion of the preacher who flashed his fist
and yelled at the unanswering assembled faces.