Mid-Winter Sun

The wind is chaotic,
Shaking the house like a dog.
In the brief afternoon
The sun puts its fingers
On a clod of earth,
And the wren splays its legs
In possession.

I think of summer

When I will walk my garden
Like a potentate.
Gold will be my colour,
Gold of the sun,
Of my demonstrative voice
Chanting the Iliad as I walk.

I am hoarding myself,

Waiting for better days.
I am a gleam through brushwood
Leading you on
Through the sticky soil:
Only discover me
And I shall outshine the mid-winter sun.

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© December 1979