почему-то сегодня опять бормочется Walcott, хоть и дождя-то нет... Remember childhood? Remember a faraway rain?
Yesterday I wrote a letter and tore it up. Clouds carried bits under
the hills
like gulls through the steam of the valley to Port of Spain;
then my eyes began to brim from all the old ills
as I lay face-up in bed, muffling the thunder
of a clouded heart while the hills dissolved in ruin.
This is how the rain descends into Santa Cruz,
with wet cheeks, with the hills holding on to snatches of sunlight
until they fade, then the far sound of a river, and surging grass,
the mountains loaded as the clouds that have one bright
fissure that closes into smoke, and things returning to fable
and rumour and the way it was once, it was like this once . . .
Remember the small red berries shaped like a bell
by the road bushes, and a church at the end of innocence,
and the sound of la rivière Dorée, through the trees to Choiseul,
the scent of hog plums that I have never smelled since,
the long-shadowed emptiness of small roads, when a singed smell
rose
from the drizzling asphalt, the way rain hazes the chapel
of La Divina Pastora, and a life of incredible errors?
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