Above the graffiti’d wall
which offers its shade to a few garden seats
the dome of the sky seems whole, complete.
Who now recalls the fire
that earlier ran riot in the world’s veins?
The opaque shapes, in cold repose, are scattered here and there.
Tomorrow I’ll see the benches again
and the wall and the familiar road.
The future opens; its mornings
are anchored like boats riding at harbour.
Sul muro grafito
che adombra i sedili rari
l’arco del cielo appare
finito.
Chi si ricorda più del fuoco ch’arse
impetuoso
nelle vene del mondo; — in un riposo
freddo le forme, opache, sono sparse.
Rivedrò domani le banchine
e la muraglia e l’usata strada.
Nel futuro che s’apre le mattine
sono ancorate come barche in rada.
Chalkface Press is pleased to announce the publication of
by John Richmond
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