Sunnegoffen
‘k Sit op ’t hek bij Swarte Haan
regt foar de dyk, dy lykt nou overboadig,
maar dat is klare skyn, syn werk hier is noait daan;
as de noordwester opsteekt is die weer broadnoadig.
Links lait ’t land, leeg, kil en kaal,
de lugt is skier, de grieze kluten glimme,
’n grouwe séfeugel sit krytend op ’t gemaal,
’t is ’t enige geluud dat je ron’om fernimme.
Regts lait ’t wad, wied, groats en grouw
helendal droog, gyn mielimeter water
tot in ’t feerste feerte drabbeg slik, gries-blauw;
sou’en se hier ooit nag eerpels rooie, later?
Sunday morning
I sit on the gate of the Zwarte Haan
in front of the dike, it looks so redundant,
but that is a sham, its work here is endless;
as the north west blows it is never more necessary.
Left is the land void, bleak and barren,
the air is hazy, the grey clods gleam,
a sturdy sea gull sits screeching on the mill,
it’s the only sound that you can hear.
Right lies the Wad, broad, spacious and grey
completely dry, not a millimeter of water
till the furthest expanse, grey blue muddy sludge;
shall potatoes ever grow here, later?
Translation: Albertina Soepboer & Sue Smeding
