Читать книгу Continued - Piotr Sommer - Страница 12

We ride the ridge, by track and tunnel,

then after a while

descend, but first

there are brooks and bridgelets, because

how can they call them bridges,

yesterday Smithy, before that Hebden,

and now Sowerby and purple foxgloves

on the embankment. And still

I haven’t figured out who

I’m saying this to, or even who

would care that through the leaves

you can see Halifax

and someone’s life, June being so transparent,

though yesterday it rained and clouds came out.