The Garden at Dusk
He noticed the garden through the back door railings;
The gardener, on a ladder, was gathering fruit;
further away a girl with a basket had her eyes closed
and a book on her knees. At the far end the houses
looked rosy in the dusk. Only the kitchen window was
lighted. Someone from there called the girl. She got up.
The gardener felt so alone again, guilty, furtively happy,
since he had passed the whole garden under his arm
like a basket, hanging onto that internal voice that
deepened the whole evening; a basket full of leaves
and fruit and the small golden knife among them.
Manolis 