MIRAGE
MIRAGE
A pool of earth billows and steams in the summer sun.
Tombstones, flat slow barges, sail past me,
the cross a crooked mast.
There’s no wind, it is the sandy ground itself
that inches its way forward.
Where is the journey headed for, I want to ask.
the cross a crooked mast.
There’s no wind, it is the sandy ground itself
that inches its way forward.
Where is the journey headed for, I want to ask.
There’s no answer.
Sitting on the quay wall on this strange Sunday afternoon
I see them disappear one by one.
They tilt over the edge of my vision
into the vortex of an hour-glass perhaps.
I see them disappear one by one.
They tilt over the edge of my vision
into the vortex of an hour-glass perhaps.
Who shall say.
© 2004, Eva Cox
© Translation: 2007, Judith Wilkinson
