THE JUG

                    He drank, his eyes catching the confused blue eyes of the
Black-clad fisherman’s widow beside the spring, standing in
                    The sultry shade of a bashful cedar, the sharp reek
Of resin and fish, a glimpse of sea and boats, now empty.
                    She stood still, her sunken eyes seeing him drinking in
A night of smothered cries and thirsty love, while she balanced
                    The water jug on her shocked shoulder – beside her
A donkey, blue and still; through the pale white ear of her arm
                    The sea; beyond her hips the surf, and in between them,
Struck dumb by the stormy winds of a moment of silence:

                    They had drunk, and seen the fishermen in their boats grow
Slowly smaller, while the net of stars, dripping with promise,
                    Had grown fuller and more taut, two half moons had floated
Into a green harbor, and the wind had sprinkled salt on
                    The broken ice in the glasses on a terrace with
Black hoses and white buckets; and he had followed the path
                    To her hut (much later than she, up the hill, through the
Dark alleys, away from fisherman’s knives), just as she had
                    Described it to him, sensing that he would come, and he
Had climbed her hill, had slaked his thirst on her obliging jug.

DE KRÛK

DE KRÛK

                    Hy dronk, wylst syn eagen de strakblauwe eagen fan
De fiskersfrou yn it swart troffen en betizen, by
                    De boarne, yn it soel middeisskaad fan ferlegen
Seders, rook fan fisk en hars, sicht oer see en sloepen, leech.
                    Stil stie sy, wylst har fersonken eagen syn drinken
Seagen yn ’e nacht fan smoarde lûden, leafdes toarst en
                    De goederjouske krûk op har no skrokken skouder,
Neist in ezel, blau en stil; troch it blank ear fan har earm
                    De see, om har heupen de branning, tusken beiden,
Ferstomme troch it stoarmjen fan in eagenblik stilte:

                    Sy hienen dronken, en sjoen hoe’t de fiskers yn har
Lytse sloepen stadich lytser waarden, de fan ûnthjit
                    Drippende netten fan ’e stjerren strakker, foller,
Twa heale moannen de griene haven yn dreauwen, mei
                    It sâlt fan ’e see fyn yn ’e wyn oer it brutsen
Iis yn ’e glêzen op in terras mei swarte slangen,
                    Wite amers; en it paad nei har hutte (néi har
Heuvel-op, de gloppen troch, fanwegen fiskersmessen)
                    Hie se útlein, fielend dat er komme soe, en hy
Wie har heuvel beklommen, hie him lave oan har krûk.