Preludes 1 (Translation)

The gas is turned, the matches struck;
A holocaust of cooking fires
Erupt about the piled pots. Six o’clock

Chimes distantly, and melts across
The cobbled street. The wind disperses
Smells of roasting corn and steak, gathering,
In its icy rake, the coils of the leaves
Onto the faded print of paper sheaves.

The wind picks up; in drops the clouds begin
To knock at broken panes and rusted chimney
Pots. The coming of the last day’s cab, the clatter
Of the night’s first hooves -- and now, the shade
Of evening drawn, the lure of flickering roofs.