布拉格男人--安妮.伯克利

因为我的波兰没有奔向“电车票”，
我得步行。我的相机卡住了。
我用手套猛击它。风冲出柏油路。
掠过橙色的沙砾。那是很远的距离。
不管怎样。光走了。

穿过，跨越维斯杜拉河的桥，是布拉格--
熊坑，贫瘠地带，混凝土高楼。
天空沉重地压在河上，把它敲打平坦，
挤出浮渣，芦苇上的尖齿。
我想象上流是重工业。
.
但不是浮渣。是冰。其边缘可见。因为，
沿河而下，离岸很远：
两个男人蜷缩在折叠凳上，从诡计多端的
微光中拉着什么东西，他们没戴手套的手
做着需要小心处理的复杂的事情。

我看着他们。他们安静自在
出去到外面的通道。吸烟，固定钓饵。
风拂过波兰也拂过我。全都让我无法想象--
他们周日早晨的安逸，他们的冰，
他们的脚下是未被逮到的逍遥的鱼儿。
Because my Polish doesn’t run to “tram ticket”,
I have to walk. And my camera’s jammed.
I jab it with my gloves. Brush at orange grit
the wind flings off the tarmac. It’s miles.
And anyway, the light’s gone.

Over the bridge, across the Vistula, is Praga –
the Bear-Pit, the badlands, the concrete tower blocks.
The sky weighs down on the river, beats it flat,
squeezing out the scum that snags on reeds.
I imagine heavy industries upstream.

But it isn’t scum. Ice. Its visible edge. Because,
down on the river, far from shore:
two men crouch on camp-stools, hauling
something in from the tricky gleam, doing
delicate, intricate things with their bare hands.

I watch them. They’re quite at home
out there in the channel. Smoking, fixing bait.
The wind flicks Polish at me. It’s all beyond me –
their Sunday morning ease, their ice,
the fluent fish at large below their feet.