Not the sea, but sultry mists, concrete slabs
and discarded rails, pierced by the sunset’s sooty carmine
which, from time to time, streaks the sky. Curtained with
fetid algae, the breakwater protrudes - a refuge for seagulls.
Where the sand and strait converge, a figure waits for the crimson
to fade on the far side of the many-masted disorder
and to return home, when the moment comes. But, where is home?
Here, or on the ocean’s far shore? In the mountains, where avalanches
have sheared off the slopes? Under back-road firs,
where one can glimpse old cellars’ depths? In the ageing body,
which refuses to submit? Or perhaps in the uncertainty
that you have lived? The certainty you will disappear? In this place poisoned by rust —
or again, in the gaze that can still here divine
the symmetry, harmony and measure it manages to find?
EN 
MK