I call these 'late verses' for two reasons. They were written late in life, at the age of eighty-one and also late in the day, as a closure to the day, shortly before midnight or during those hours of the night when sleep is inappropriate.
21
Chilly today.
The flying fish descend upon us.
I am frying rice in my cabin
because the cook is being punished.
Lonely hours I spend
staring out over the sea.
I find I have very little to say.
However this is true, that an
immense dream is threatening to
overwhelm me.
So much depends on where we start.
The figs are ripe now, the walnuts
have been harvested.
Angry I am because my spirit
is being overlooked.
The corncobs are fat and golden.
It's evening and hundreds of crows
are wandering home in the twilight.
I cannot imagine what it is that makes me
wish I were young again and in love.
Our fat neighbour sprints across the street,
I have no idea why.
Obviously I have learned
a thing or two on earth, however
this does not make me immune
to the grief of my fellow man.
*
