A light still shining
some kids still at their game
The light is an upstairs classroom:
on the darkened court
only the thump of the ball
Skirting beyond the wire fence
I gaze up at the classroom
guessing who might be cramming away
no, embracing his sweetheart
probing the heat of night, or
puffing in a huddle on pallid cigarettes
with teacher not round
youth's indomitable curiosity
stealthily spreads its tendrils.
Or no one at all.
Or perhaps
a graduate of ten years
untangled an instant from a different jungle
back to sit a while
hear the bounce of a basketball
savour some adolescent obscenities
oblivious of the dusk
fading to night. I walked beneath a light
and stopped to look a while.

Boat and Home
By Chan Chi Tak
Translated by Janice Wickeri

I remember a windless night
and your home on the waves
you spoke of bitter sea water, the stink of fish
and the way you rock from side to side
as you sleep

at times you returned to the calm of the typhoon shelter
with a full catch
saying you wanted to go out again, into that life
with its dangers, vast waters
but this night as the yellow bulb gently swayed
you too savoured this serenity
in the cabin then each novelty stowed in its place
granted that it was a moment to hold dear

radio played pop tunes, news reports and
the stories behind the news
divulged variations in temperature and wind velocity
on deck, books and magazines      you've skimmed their
miniscule, unsteady words
distorted radio waves      harsh TV images
this too seemed a world that reeks of blood

what did the grownups below deck discuss, their
voices ponderous, great events or small?
all beyond our grasp
at the last you signed a Christmas card for me
later sadly lost in moving house
faulty memory has let slip your name      just this remains
on the card no hackneyed Hong Kong junk returning in the sunset
but a home
a boat
braving the elements, making a living