You knew how it would be before you came:
your dreams take root in an alien sky;
wither; you watch them die -
and hark back to immensities of beach,
a light-sluiced tidal flat where mangroves
grasp the air tenaciously, and slow
waves creep; a faded dwelling-place, its timbers
bleaching like an upturned hull;
lament of gulls, the shriek of lorikeets.
Migrant
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103072000184
Свидетельство о публикации №103072000184
Рецензии
For a fine translation of this poem by Vlanes, please see:
http://www.stihi.ru/2003/08/11-367
Jena Woodhouse 13.08.2003 16:33 • Заявить о нарушении
http://www.stihi.ru/2003/08/11-367
Jena Woodhouse 13.08.2003 16:33 • Заявить о нарушении