Bournemouth Winter Poem by Bernard Henrie

Bournemouth Winter



Winter comes from far away.
The cold slick as a dinner knife;
ducks stare, zinc eyes, bottoms
brown as tobacco leaf;

December speaks Turkish or slow
Japanese I cannot translate.

Watched you sail alone,
bare headed; shouting to skeins
of green waves;

sea caps destined to reach shore,
children returning home older
than we remember.

England dark at 4 o'clock;
short days open like a dance fan,
the little orchestra. Ja Da.
a scaffold abandoned by a painter
twists to burnt iron color.

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