Eric Schuurman, 1985 Baltic Rain
From a shore of the Great Lakes,
through the St. Lawrence seaway,
sailing away in a dream
across Atlantic cold and grey.
Rolling in the North sea,
fading from distant pain.
Stepping onto solid ground
in a spray of Baltic Rain.
In my dream there were two lists.
The first, three thousand that we lost.
On the second were the ones
that we offered up as cost.
As I walked I realized
that the second had more names.
It occurred we’d lost another war.
Such a weeping Baltic Rain.
In the strange light of my dream
a fresh new morning broke.
From a home forever changed,
to a new one I awoke.
A free city at my feet,
and the sound of a new name.
Down a street of cobblestone
with a scent of Baltic Rain.
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