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| Larus Marinus |
HAVSTRUTENS UNGE
Han ligger där i sin skreva
i hård triumferande vårsol.
Äggskal klibbar i dunet
från boet, fem meter fjärran.
Han blinkar mot skarpa ljuset.
Så skarpt skall blicken sikta,
så skarpt skall näbben stinga
i fiskbukens glidande silver —
och vingarna: vida, vida ...
Ja. Om en sommar. Om tusen ...
Den lille kurar i blåsten,
han trycker sig inåt och somnar
i majblåst och störtande solljus.
Vinden ritar en liten bena i dunet.
GREAT BLACK-BACKED GULL’S YOUNG ONE
He lies there in his crevice
in hard triumphant spring sun.
Egg shell clings to the down
from the nest, five metres away.
He blinks at the sharp light.
So sharply will his gaze aim
so sharply will his beak sink
into the gliding silver of the fish’s belly –
and his wings: wide, wide …
Yes. A summer from now. A thousand …
The small bird huddles in the wind,
presses itself inwards and falls asleep
in May wind and plunging sunlight.
The wind traces a small bone in the down.
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