In a mist-filled snow
cast in grey shadows
sat an old green bench
with flaking paint;
it had a beady-eyed crow at its end
who crossly flew away
when we approached.
I don’t really know, you said,
what I’ll do; and I said,
I know, darling, but I’m sure
it will be all right. And then
I brushed the snowflakes
away from your eyes
and kissed you.
That was in Istanbul
where old green steamers went lurching across the Horn
softly, silently puffing …
.
I have grown old
and resent each bedridden day
spent thinking; I particularly
despise the night, each
sleepless night and deep
where ancient memories
softly creep.
