If my cat/kitten, Black as coal, With one white mitten, (I call him Paw)
Was not black as coal, He’d be lost to me, And to the ages, In these drifts of snow Covering Partridge Island, After the storm, From down the coast,
That left us so white. I kept him in while It raged, Which he took to kindly. But I let him loose, The next afternoon, Because a cat/kitten Got to learn the
Ways of the world. He took to the huge drifts, Like a fish to water. And when he tried to Chase a rabbit, I laughed myself silly. And, (I bet), So did the rabbit.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report} DE BA. UEL
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the lost diary entries that he either ignored, or destroyed.
Kafka made this walk hundreds of times (and I managed a few, myself).
The following is the entry I made of Kafka crossing the Bridge, and what he pondered.
Excerpt From Kafka in the Castle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
29 August 1917
I strolled the Charles Bridge a long time tonight, before coming on to the castle. I have the feeling that the river air helps my lungs.
I also like the city lights reflecting from the racing water. And the occasional boat, lanterns stern and bow.
I have once or twice steered my own boat through the dark, the flickering light dripping through the gloom before me. If I could have reached the sea while it was still dark, I would have tried to do so. But I was younger then. And could breathe deeply.
Fantasy fuelled this escape, from my Moldau island and then along the Elbe, through Dresden, Magdeburg and Hamburg, to the freedom of Helgoland Bay. Further into the North Sea, if I wanted. Perhaps to Iceland, where I could become lost in the snow and white.
All this, from my perch upon the Charles Bridge, as I strolled from side to side, and one end to the other. My last smile reserved for the statues staring down on me.
Their stony expressions etched upon their faces, as is mine to me.
Perhaps – if just once – some grubby commercial venture offered to pay me for their questionable goods, I would relent. But it ain’t happened, so it’s delete delete delete. Sore (yet soaring) finger.
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