NPM: Azores

Great green ships
themselves, they ride
at anchor forever;
beneath the tide

huge roots of lava
hold them fast
in mid-Atlantic
to the past.

The tourist, thrilling
from the deck,
hail shrilly pretty
the hillsides flecked

with cottages
(confetti) and
sweet lozenges
of chocolate (land).

They marvel at
the dainty fields
and terraces
hand-tilled to yield

the modest fruits
of vines and trees
imported by
the Portuguese:

a rural landscape
set adrift
from centuries ago;
the rift

enlarges.
The ship proceeds.
Again the constant
music feeds

an emptiness astern,
Azores gone.
The void behind, the void
ahead are one.


-- John Updike