Sailor's Tale - Tomas Tranströmer

[speculumannorum]

There are stark winter days when the sea has links
to the mountain areas, hunched over in feathery grayness,
blue for a moment, and then the waves for hours are like pale
lynxes, trying to get a grip on the gravelly shore.

On a day like that wrecks leave the sea and go looking for
their owners, surrounded by noise in the city, and drowned
crews blow toward land, more delicate than pipe smoke.

(In the Far North the real lynx walks, with sharpened claws
and dream eyes. In the Far North where the day
lives in a pit night and day

There the sole survivor sits by the furnace
of the Northern Lights, and listens to the music
coming from the men frozen to death.)

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