стихи

Echo

Echo

I sense a plover's wing
turn in the tangy gel
of evening light.

I sense a horse's leg
touch the emerald hill
through the grass-woven net.

I sense a planet ripen
like a pear infused with honey,
ready to drop from its black bough.

I sense everything happen,
both near me and far away,
both long ago and now.

I am an echo, too responsive,
and therefore condensed as flesh and bone,
preserving its uncanny balance

not through my vigour, but because I have
too many things to ruffle me, for any one
to make a difference.


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