Tranströmer

Winter's Gaze



I lean like a ladder and with my face
reach in to the second floor of the cherry tree.
I'm inside the bell of colors, it chimes with sunlight.
I polish off the swarthy red berries faster than four magpies.

A sudden chill, from a great distance, meets me.
The moment blackens
and remains like an axe-cut in a tree trunk.

Fron now on it's late.  We make off half running
out of sight, down, down into the ancient sewage system.
The tunnels.  We wander around for months
half in service and half in light.

Brief devotions when some hatchway opens above us
and a weak light falls.
We look up: the starry sky through the grating.



trns. by Robin Fulton 


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