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Lyn Moir

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Thomas Mann's House, Nida

(for Elizabeth Bewick)

Silver encircling milk amber: water surrounding sand
and dark pine trees guarding a wooden house
upon a cliff, holding the memories
of inter-war soirées, of talk and silence
solid as the shadows of the scented canopy,
relaxed and elegant, as measured as his prose.

At the foot of the path, among the trees,
the little hut with finely-crafted jewellery
abuts the stalls where cheerful con-boys sell
insects encased in melted amber, clear
as lemon jelly. We, knowing deception,
buy their pieces, entranced by guileless smiles.

The amber flotsam filled the beaches then
as now. He wrote his books as storm clouds blacked
the sky and warning thunder rolled. Years pass.
The storm has died, another come and gone;
what happened may be twisted as it's told.
Lies may be truth here by the time-warped sea.

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