THE WARM WINTER

In spite of the fears, the winter’s been rarely warm –
well into December it’s never once frosted or snowed.
It’s humid instead, and the sparkles of water-spray swarm
around the street-lamps and set as a delicate load

on asphalted walks and my coated shoulders and sleeves,
and put applications to my heated forehead. The mist
is such that a man that his home imprudently leaves
can stray and get lost in the alleys and never be missed.

Today I have walked to the pond in your favourite park
and, can you imagine, I found a lonely duck
still circling the coal-black pool in the growing dark –
still waiting for your kind hands and a crumb of good luck.

I fed it, but what can I offer th’invisible planes
whose purring is coming, detached, from the sky overcast?
Away they are flying, above all the worries and pains,
to sunshiny lands – so bright, so free of the past.

Oh no, I have no hopes of getting you back –
it’s simply because of this wet I’m out of form.
In time I’ll be fine, and it’s time that I now don’t lack.
It’s only this winter – who knew that it’d be so warm...

Александр Капьяр, 2005

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 847 № 34938 от 01.06.2005

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