Tween swampy banks of winding river…
– Polonsky
A place where the treetops look on entranced
as you dip in your blade;
smoothly gliding along – but then something snags,
sticks, takes root in the bed
(through the pines seeps burning sunshine,
rays poking aslant,
but then it fades and goes in; there must be something,
something surely sad);
the collective farms, the empty fields and houses
allow this sadness through,
so’s to dig in where over the pool bend osiers,
and in the depths are time and gloom.
1988