PRINSENGRACHT 263
We ambled beside the Prinsengracht canal,
and, whisperingly, noted the contents
of each houseboat. On the top of one,
part hidden by potted ferns, a heron stood.
The black iris of its yellow eye seemed
focussed on us. As we walked to the next bridge
we heard the rush of its wings , and turned
to see it rise towards the Westerkerk
then beat slowly seawards. The North Sea,
twice each day, flows into the Amstel
and through the canals, like blood and breathing.
The church clock chimed the hour – bells Anne Frank heard
beyond counting. We showed our timed ticket.
The waiting area, on the ground floor
next to Otto Frank’s pectin warehouse,
was full, tumultuous, a veritable
Babel. People were sitting on the stairs,
loud with expectation, apprehension.
The bookcase was opened – the silence
immediate, profound.
Ashen Venema
April 26, 2024‘…The church clock chimed the hour – bells Anne Frank heard…’
Here just one sound opens a time-vault.