St Paul

A poem.

Old capital, becalmed on the edge
of a freshwater marsh – lifeblood –
despite the breeze. It drinks mountains,
laments its poor anchorage. Leconte
de Lisle’s repatriated remains
rest in the narrow seaside cemetery.
Cemeteries where the dead
are very much alive, breathe
deeply at salt air, speak
untranslatable poetry.

Tags:poetry