Poem: ‘The View’
Mark Strand, 16 October 1997
For Derek Walcott
This is the place. The chairs are white. The table shines. The person sitting there stares at the waxen glow. The wind moves the air around, repeatedly, As if to clear a space. ‘A space for me,’ he thinks. He’s always been drawn to the weather of leavetaking, Arranging itself so that grief – even the most intimate – Might be read from a...
