When you speak of Astrakhan,
images detach from time,
a window saturates with light
as scenes from childhood flood the mind.
You hold a spoon where droplets glow
like gems in wisps of autumn breath;
past windows mirrored in your eyes
the cranes migrate, a white horse glides.
At dusk, his shadow-neck and mane
are stained rose madder, amethyst,
as waterfowl cry fretful from the river-
verge and old men fish.
Gazing from the water's edge,
the far shore hidden from your sight,
the Volga seems as infinite
and lonely as the winter skies.
Astrakhan
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200262
Свидетельство о публикации №103020200262
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