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Wulf Kirsten

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Wasteland

For Eberhard Haufe

Just walking across country, nothing to me, nothing to you, where nothing grows which is of use in farming. A meagre broom-ridden terrain rustling with black pods. There's a grouchy rattling and crackling around this last outpost. Thistles parade proudly, boy scouts, heads held high. Their untamed lust for life taking off with the wind. Closed gravel pits, where nature has a free hand. In the pathless, madly growing mat of grass, the gentians speckle the turf with their deep-blue, autumn goblets. The thorny slope covered with a rich variety of self-seeders.  A wall of maquis. No sign: Danger! Impenetrable Zone! No Access! Reserve for foxes and small game. So many boltholes, so many goodnights. Camomile growing lushly on burnt debris and iron parts made by the ever cheerful farm mechanic, God rest his soul. Tufts of wool as landmarks in the wilderness, ripped from the herd by the bushes. Earth over old burrows giving way underfoot. Tracks left by gravel carts dis-appearing under burrs and nettles. A burnt spot: this is where the shepherd rested after lunch. Above the fertile arable land, dull and level as far as the eye can see, this wild reef rises up with a plume of green bushes. A wave of earth quickens the landscape near the placid stream that flows into the Gramme.

Translated by Stefan Tobler

Page(s) 76

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