The evening advances, then withdraws again(Hugo Williams, Tides)
Leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor.
We are drifting, you and I,
As far from another as the young heroes
Of these two novels we have just laid down.
For that is happiness: to wander alone
Surrounded by the same moon, whose tides remind us of ourselves,
Our distances, and what we leave behind.
The lamp left on, the curtains letting in the light.
These things were promises. No doubt we will come back to them.
I love those conversational, straightforward and almost throwaway poems.
Poems that you end up nodding to and agreeing and sympathising with. Poems that are impossible to imitate, though.
They are as real as real life is.
Sometimes I wonder why on Earth am I doing learning how to divide again. Next year is going to be a tedious and quite challenging one. All in all, up to this moment I am not giving up in my dreams and convictions.
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