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Athanasios Triantafyllou

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Late Autumn

You could do nothing else
but     go down
to the river-bank
at the moment when
the wind reminded    you
of marine weather
and     turbid northern waves
were full of dry
plane-trees leaves
You could imagine
her face refracted
in     green waters
       coagulated in      blue quartz
to reflect in turn the docks,
     bars,       tourists.

She could do nothing else
but to come into this
bank of Avon
no other place on this earth
was there for her to go
oh.      passing transit
coming for a few hours
from Brazil or from Paris
with her hairs black
overflowing
out of her
overcoat

On the hills a strong wind
nearly whirlpool
                            leaves piled
in unbelievable heaps
           golden on the grass
in front of the house
of the poet John Beddoes
forgotten a hundred years
ago.

She could do nothing else

next to this river
those strange people
to cast       copper
in order to make
the first swords.

Oh, my girl
if you could come
as you were
when you walked
once on this river

without sinking in it.
The waves sharp like glass
tore to pieces your naked feet

A wind was shivering later
salt lumps stained with
your blood
                   at noon
on sparkling waters
a north wind
                     in fact
non-existent
              a wind slept
on the feet
                  of the copper
Nepunda
              who was keeping
tightly in his hand-palm
his fish-tail
full of      scales
and tiny fins.

 

Page(s) 165-166

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