The cardboard ships rest on the burning shore.
Embark, my little captain; go to sleep
so you won’t hear the flocks of evil spirits
setting sail and putting out to sea.

In the walled kitchen garden the owl flits
and plumes of smoke lie heavy on the roofs.
The moment has arrived which wrecks the patient work of months:
it cracks in secret first, then bursts out in a gust.

The break in the weather’s coming, maybe silently.
The shipwright senses that his time’s at hand.
Now only the beached bark is sheltered from the storm.
Tie up your fleet of boats amongst the bushes.