Coming back from the doctor,
you have little to say.
Treading the sorrowful stones
of the Galgenstraat,
our view across the Ij impeded
by a new apartment block
on the site of the fearful gibbet
where Rembrandt van Rijn
observed Elsje Christiaen
tied to its arms,
she was barely sixteen
and you complain of the cold,
leaves turning,
autumn sun spattering
the narrow street,
three young girls playing hockey,
long legs, long honey coloured hair,
rosy cheeked and out of breath,
‘Dangerous, they could be killed!’
I turn but you’re not listening,
looking more like your old self
suddenly, quite cheered up.
