In the harbour a half-sunk boat
has learned how the sailing days stop.
A drunk leans on a park tree and
somehow announces the day´s tired.
An old man is toiling the hundred yards
home from the day´s shopping adventure
with his stick and a plastic bag.
He´s not daunted, not a single tear,
lashed by the north wind, slides down his wrinkles.
A house crumbles, the whole street´s
collapsing ahead, but I soldier on
inside him like an army, and it
blitzes the black iron gate with its weight
The calla lily in the funeral parlour window
watches like a sentry.