My first snowfall at Beşiktaş, in the very places
I dreamt of during all those winters in London.
It’s done now: I’m back.
Dark clouds, white pavements
and a pointless, bitter wind.
Silently I take an evening walk:
The grocer who brews tea nightly at eleven,
next door, baskets full of rose hip, turmeric,
carob fruit, ginger, herbs I can’t identify,
the china shop, “Patisserie Elit”, the pudding shop.
The awnings can barely carry the snow.
The locksmith’s, the dressmaker’s,
then all the repairers:
“All kinds of electronic goods repaired”,
repairers of bicycles, of watches.
Well, repairers, I’m back here now.
I turn myself over to you.
Can you repair the past with your skill?
Repair all that I ignored, all that I ruined?
And repair such days as I have still?