I have guided the first Walcott translation
of this morning
on to a safe harbour,
lightly leaking,
(and read a remembrance
of how high
standards Walcott put
on writing
poetry, no quick crafting
such as these
poems
I have scattered
across the hours
divided by the Sun's disk...)
the day is soft blue and gold
and cold,
and I, the lacklustre
pilot, hunger for more coffee
(and things as soft
as the sky
asking to be touched)
to guide the rest
of the flotilla
with tattered sails
for its appointed landfall.
But how bright
the Sun
freezing
me with its light!
14.11.2025
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