Good night, Derek Walcott, sir. Thank you for your poems. Rest easy now.
Things do not explode,
they fail, they fade,
as sunlight fades from the flesh,
as the foam drains quick in the sand,
even love’s lightning flash
has no thunderous end,
it dies with the sound
of flowers fading like the flesh
from sweating pumice stone,
everything shapes this
till we are left
with the silence that surrounds Beethoven’s head.
This is from Collected Poems 1948-1984 by Derek Walcott, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1986.