понедельник, марта 27, 2006

This is where a woman fell

to her death the other day,
climbing the cliff.
They found her face-up, spread-eagled
on the sand, as if she'd been ravished
by a god, or tried to fly.
On this rare hot day in Wales,
hang-gliders fill the down above,
each aspiring Icarus fluttering
silken, colored wings like the butterflies
in the bracken, which smells, the guidebooks
always say, of "desiccated coconut,"
like the ghost of some tropical isle.
She scaled these strata of seafloor
crowded up into the air until they grew
green and strewn with sheep on top,
where we walk and flirt with the edge
that boys clamber down to fish the ledges.
And though the border collies
bark at azure sea and sky, and try
to herd us back to safety,
as if they hear something we don't
out there, we lean, and listen.


William Greenway
"Otherworld"
2005

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