Mounds of ants hide in the heather,
water the color of beer
makes waves to the opposite shore.
A cool birch by a wooden pier
covers my father’s wading figure.
You say, go into your memory,
grind down to its frost,
to save the days that have been lost.
I do not understand this must.
I’ve yielded nothing, my father
has not aged a single day:
I celebrate this landscape of illusion
constructed out of error’s stains,
like the larvae of the horntail flies
that ate the needles of young pine
as brown as all that water
stretching out to where it lost
its found color in the distance.
Time is violent. There is no resistance.
We ford into the anthill,
raise high our weapon, pride.
From Turistina täällä (A Tourist Here), 2004.