Читать книгу Walking Wounded - William McIlvanney - Страница 7

And so adrift in unknown selves we lie

Abandoned to dark plucks of circumstance,

Not knowing what will come or what we’ll do

Or where the tides of sleep will wash us and

Shy from the sculling shapes that feed on mind,

Feel every certainty drift out of reach

And sigh and hold each other, tryst with touch

To share what is not shareable, and know

The jerking terror of time’s undertow

And madly try to dream ourselves a beach.