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.