Pasternak – nature, Mayakovsky – the street,
Akhmatova made God more tangible,
Brodsky made water reflect time and, indeed,
slowed each to a pace hitherto unimaginable,
statuesque in his crooning monotone.
Now, from each of them, I covertly borrow,
but the verse I write – it’s of you alone –
You’re, alone, enough for the rest to follow.