Time quietly compiling us like sheaves
Turns round one day, beckons the special few
With one bird singing somewhere in the leaves
Someone like K., or somebody like you,
Free-falling target for the envious thrust,
So tilting into darkness we must go.
The start of another beautiful poem by Lawrence Durrell. It is dedicated to his friend, the writer Seferis, and a later line refers to poets leaving their work behind with readers “in the lost property office of the loving mind”. What a gracious, warm sentence.