Sarah Kirsch
Mudflats I
Salt-stains on my boots / I hurried
Away beneath the beacon. The tide-line
Heaps itself morosely to-
Gether: sea-grass, seagull-wings /
Plastic rubbish, age-old shell-money / in
Between a few scattered stars.
The channels glimmer like a deep
Memory. The slender sickle
Of the moon / went pissing off keenly
Through the plundered heavens: I couldn’t
Free my feet / and oozed along
As though Caspar David’s
Inferior cousin /
Had painted me to the shore / with pitch.
From the islands resounded
The honking of geese.
Translated by W. D. Jackson
Page(s) 71
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