echoes the ancient diaspora of another people: "not Anno Domini," he writes, but "After Dachau." Poetry, for him, is the human compensation for an absent god and an absent faith: "Never get used to this, the feathery, swaying casuarinas,/the morning silent light on shafts of bright grass,/the growling Aves of the ocean, the white lances of the marinas,/the surf fingering its beads, hail heron and gull full of grace. . . ."from Karl Kirchwey: The Philadelphia Inquirer: Derek Walcott selection invites deeper reading
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