The View

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 distance. A long shelf of cloud Hangs above the open sea with the sun, the sun Of no distinction, sinking behind it - a mild version Of the story that is told just once if true, and always too late. The waitress brings his drink, which he holds Against the waning light, but just for a moment. Its red reflection tints his shirt. Slowly the sky becomes darker, The wind relents, the view sublimes. The violet sweep of it Seems, in this effortless nightfall, more than a reason For being there, for seeing it, seems itself a kind Of happiness, as if that plain fact were enough and would last.