This is the end of a long poem just published in the LRB by one of our favourites, John Burnside:
On Haupstrasse, under the streetlamps,
the stalls are piled with gourds
and pumpkins, brick red and butter
ridged or smooth as glass.
An owl calls from the far end of the track
that runs out to a wash of marsh and sky,
then everything is still: the street, the moon
the fish-house, with its red and yellow
lanterns draped on lines along the pier,
making a place like home, from a little light,
their muddled reflections spotted with pondweed and stars.
Crane Watching in Ostprignitz-Ruppin, November 2014
London Review of Books vol 38 no 10, 10 May 2016. Sorry, you can’t read the rest unless you’re a subscriber.