The winter of water goes on, and
on, as house by house the streets
sink into streams, pedestrians transform
into canoeists chancing their arm,
a paddle in the night. I tire
of driving through the darkness
straining to make out the way ahead
between the wash of wiper-blades,
the splash of rain. Further on, above
the hills I think I can distinguish
a dull light breaking through
leading me on, astray perhaps,
away out past the shrieking wind
to an old farmhouse, a fiddle,
a glass of moonshine raised to my lips.
Matthew Geden is author of Swimming to Albania.