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                  SIMON WEST

 

              I giorni della merla

 

 

 

                          And once again the blackbird's days come round,

                          punctual as moons, while arctic winds pitch

                          down from the north, and precarious streetlights sway

                          like silent golden bells above the town.

                          A little dust moves and gone is the grey lie.

                          Ice gleams, as if we almost could believe

                          the miserable swallows waiting under eaves,

                          or clear between facades of glass the sky.

 

                          Nothing will come in place of the blackbird

                          who holds our thoughts in his twists and turns but doesn't

                          himself appear. Only the evening falling,

                          the lonely lights of shop fronts uninviting,

                          the tired stares of those who await the wasn't

                          of a century, or the darting shadow of a word.

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