We still don’t know what it was,
the creature that lay here yesterday,
its wings spread out on the sand,
bulk almost too big for the day
but it lay on its side like a horse of
insane proportions that had charged at the coast,
a head like a house, the hide just as smooth
as an adder or toad, the eyes
almost sad, even closed.
It lay in the light of the north,
we stroked its skin until night.
We slept restless, unable to think.
Now there’s talk here of gods
and fables – who knows where it is.
Strange tracks lead down to the drink.
Notes on this poem
From Napkins at Half Mast, translated by Paul Vincent
