кончился октябрь

Derec Walcott

Then, as if the earth's wick were being lowered,
the glass of the grey sky was smudged and its field smoke trimmed,
October flared in New Hampshire while its leaves were laid
low by the whistling scythe as the smoke dimmed.
Then you heard the rasping screech of a wheeling falcon
over the silken asphalt road, past the burning lake
with its stilled reflecting timber, over burnt sheaves of tall corn
shriven and bearded in chorus, then a flake drifting
like the hawk's feather, to the earth's alarm: "It's snowing."
That flair for theatre, that motley, that harlequinade;
what else but a concert for our benefit, our going,
that processional flourish, a calendar's ambuscade,
with inns that sharply whiten, corn nailed to their door,
the pumpkin's memento-mori, the jack-o'-lantern's grin,
the sharp blue smell of smoke, the enriching odour
of decay, of consecration, in barns stocked with grain.
The flakes of November will carry you further into
a soundless country and the dark gather around
the lanterns of leaves, their piles of ash, then winter;
where you stand like an exclamation on a page of white ground.
( Read more... )

кончился октябрь

Derec Walcott

Then, as if the earth's wick were being lowered,
the glass of the grey sky was smudged and its field smoke trimmed,
October flared in New Hampshire while its leaves were laid
low by the whistling scythe as the smoke dimmed.
Then you heard the rasping screech of a wheeling falcon
over the silken asphalt road, past the burning lake
with its stilled reflecting timber, over burnt sheaves of tall corn
shriven and bearded in chorus, then a flake drifting
like the hawk's feather, to the earth's alarm: "It's snowing."
That flair for theatre, that motley, that harlequinade;
what else but a concert for our benefit, our going,
that processional flourish, a calendar's ambuscade,
with inns that sharply whiten, corn nailed to their door,
the pumpkin's memento-mori, the jack-o'-lantern's grin,
the sharp blue smell of smoke, the enriching odour
of decay, of consecration, in barns stocked with grain.
The flakes of November will carry you further into
a soundless country and the dark gather around
the lanterns of leaves, their piles of ash, then winter;
where you stand like an exclamation on a page of white ground.
( Read more... )