It might be a nightclub logo
laying highlights in the pavement after rain,
or the sound of a cistern spilling,
or the silky splash
of a raindrop striking a rose, or you might decide
on the dark-out-of-darkness sob of a nightingale...
I glanced across and noticed how she slept
with her knee tucked up
and knew what I felt wasn't love, although, somehow,
the moment held all there was of tenderness:
the smell of the sheet, the fold of her knee, the fold
of the coverlet, that this as a warm evening in spring.
Look, who can say what these things mean?
They make patterns in our lives and all I know
is not knowing helps, but I couldn't tell you why.
David Harsent, In Secret: Versions of Yannis Ritsos, Enitharmon, 2012