Winter, 1977
A mad tsar's vision trapped a city
like a fly in amber:
Peter's window on the West, wall-
eyed with ice, myopic, lies
dormant in a cloak of polar white.
Spring will unveil a beauty
with a narcissistic face, gazing
on her many images in quiet canals.
Now, wolves emerge from old wives' tales
to scavenge hungry wastes; the Nevsky
wears a guarded air of intrigue, faded
gallantry; fog and mist enshroud the river,
settling behind the eyes. History
is a migraine in this city -
muse to melancholy,
nursemaid to Onegin, Rasputin -
grave and cradle...
St. Petersburg
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103040200932
Свидетельство о публикации №103040200932
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