ostróda

windy roads
flanked with forest
and half-finished modernising,
walls that have seen better days,
prussian blue signposts,
smells of cabbage,
dill and potatoes,
freshly cut watermelon,

a humble, crumbling apartment block
reflects the shadow of young men
wake boarding,
loud-music blaring,

an ice-cream dribbles
down a rosy toddler
around her; voices
thick and raspy
with rarely used constants,

and the crystal shine
of a lake,
scattered with waterlilies
white swans,
little boys fishing,
old men chuckling,
tourists,
wanderers,
like me
wide
with gazing.