Saltar para: Posts [1], Pesquisa [2]

luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Helen Dunmore - Wild Strawberries

What I get, I bring home to you: 
a dark handful, sweet-edged, 
dissolving in one mouthful. 

I bother to bring them for you 
though they’re so quickly over, 
pulpless, sliding to juice 

a grainy rub on the tongue 
and the taste’s gone. If you remember 
we were in the woods at wild strawberry-time 

and I was making a basket of dock-leaves 
to hold what you’d picked, 
but the cold leaves unplaited themselves 

and slid apart, and again unplaited themselves 
until I gave up and ate wild strawberries 
out of your hands for sweetness. 

I licked at your palm: 
the little salt-edge there, 
the tang of money you’d handled. 

As we stayed in the woods, hidden, 
we heard the sound system below us 
calling the winners at Chepstow, 
faint as the breeze turned. 

The sun came out on us, the shade blotches 
went hazel: we heard names 
bubble like stock-doves over the woods 

as jockeys in stained silks gentled 
those sweat-dark, shuddering horses 
down to the walk.

Helen Dunmore - Litany

For the length of time it takes a bruise to fade 
for the heavy weight on getting out of bed, 
for the hair’s grey, for the skin’s tired grain, 
for the spider naevus and drinker’s nose 
for the vocabulary of palliation and Macmillan 
for friends who know the best funeral readings, 

for the everydayness of pain, for waiting patiently 
to ask the pharmacist about your medication 
for elastic bandages and ulcer dressings, 
for knowing what to say 
when your friend says how much she still misses him, 
for needing a coat although it is warm, 

for the length of time it takes a wound to heal, 
for the strange pity you feel 
when told off by the blank sure faces 
of the young who own and know everything, 
for the bare flesh of the next generation, 
for the word ‘generation’, which used to mean nothing.