On August 13th
the ship built from the wreck
sails round the island’s outermost
promontory which with gentle hills and calm
outlines descends to the sea.
Glistening in lovely greenness
like the pasture slopes of the Alps
it lies in late summer’s light,
untouched, it seems, by man.
Seen from on board,
the land moves.
Time past
grows no more real
through sufferings endured.
Incomprehensible, too, on the horizon
above the blue
vapour spread over the land,
after four days at sea
the smoke trails from Asia’s volcanoes.
To get close to this vista
they tack beneath the coast,
at one-quarter of a knot per hour
southward a good week long,
by night pull at the oars, too,
until, on the twenty-fifth of the month,
they reach the harbour of Petropavlovsk,
its plundered blockhouses and stores.
In thanksgiving for the miracle of their release
and in accordance with Bering’s wish
they make a silver frame,
beaten out of the coins, left unspent
to the last, for St. Peter’s icon.