Tomas Tranströmer - “Six Winters”1
In the black hotel a child is asleep.
And outside: the winter night
where the wide-eyed dice roll.
An élite of the dead became stone
in Katarina Churchyard
where the wind shakes in its armour from Svalbard.
One wartime winter when I lay sick
a huge icicle grew outside the window.
Neighbour and harpoon, unexplained memory.
Ice hangs down from the roof edge.
Icicles: the upside-down Gothic.
Abstract cattle, udders of glass.
On a side-track, an empty railway-carriage.
With the journeys in its claws.
Tonight snow-haze, moonlight. The moonlight jellyfish itself
is floating before us. Our smiles