by Davide Trame
[ poetry - january 05 ]
No storm with the woolly, yellow broken clouds
and the gaps of becalmed blue light beneath,
with the bustle below of wave-crests in the breeze,
the boats' pointed bows and the rusty-red roofs.
Nor loneliness with the swishes up there
of silken cloaks, scarves streaming
around swinging sinews, nobody worried
at not having any solid ground to tread on.
And those below in their homes, on thin floorboards
covering the wavering mud and grass of sand-bars,
never lonely at sunset near what could always
be their last night, getting ready for bed
with this widespread rustling clamour over their heads,
the shore beyond being just next, one with
the clouds melting in the water
lapping foundations and breaths.