Yet now for Yu a year has passed
Under the bridge of life to flow
Into the future yet unknown
Silently o’er pebble and stone
Hidden in reeds on sandy shore
I muse whereon her shadow ‘s cast.

Another year has passed us by
And still we hear the song
As tulips blossom in the tree
And wild sparrows fly a-free.
A thought springs up into the night –
A cranial response to the plight –
Appraising what we sensed must be
April has come and now must we
Advert to a remembrance day
Apply ourselves to the affray
Appropriate to ourselves a pen
And write, again, two more than ten.

Der Berg ertönte den Nebel nach

Im Ferne sah der Berg die Blitze,
Er hört den Donner in den dunklen Nebeln
Die Sonne hoch im Himmel schien
Das Erde flieht, bewegt bei Regen

Und der Berg ertönte den Nebel nach,
Was willst du, Nebel mein?
Der Nebel noch immer näher kommt:
In meinem Bauch deine Gipfel stören

In den dunklen Nebel die Blitze schossen
Aus tiefer Not die Felsen krächzten
Die Sonne hört, die Mond nimmt ab
Und Donner grollte in dem Staub

Am Morgen kommt der Tag zurück
Die Dämmerung weicht dem Tag
Wo ist der Gipfel, der erhob sich hoch?
In meinem Bach, erwiderte das Feld

Die Staub des Berges floss zum Meer
Mit Hilfe des Regens Heer.
Das Wasser fragte nach dem Gipfel;
Steht noch oben der Berg über den Wipfeln?

In the middle of the night
As the stars were burning bright
And the owl in midst of flight
Did catch the sound and the sight
Of those who their tent did pight,

In the middle of the bight.
This at first did seem not right
But the ropes and stays kept tight
As could be seen from that height
Where the soaring of the kite

In the middle of the light
Would cause, on earth, to incite
In creatures small all their might
To turn at once into fright
When cognisant of their plight.

In the middle of the site
Thus began the strangest rite
Which the creatures did excite
When faced by this did it quite
Turn their visage pallid white.

In the midst I now indite,
Though this ode oft seem trite
(It is worth naught but a mite),
Yet to speak without respite
My words all placed are aright:

In the middle of the eight
Where the circles do invite
One to be seen, but in spite,
Three in hex not on its right
Thus it seems to implicate
In the meaning of this date.

Last night the moon, in all her fullness veiled,
Hung in the steel blue sky of winter’s night
Fell from her true face a nebulous shroud
Silently slipping o’er the starry sight.

Hoots of owl and shrieks of bat from below
Made competition, just as feline eyes,
Which cared not for the silver mournful glow,
With stealth stalked o’er the verdant grassy rise.

Such unfeeling works of poor nature’s lines
Neither see nor comprehend such beauty.
The moon rides high, and proudly shines.
She gives her light and asks no tax or fee.

For she receives from a greater sphere
In whose burning flame she pales her splendour
Fearing not to hide from mortal’s gaze and view.
And I, what would I have compared you to?

If it were not to the well-shrouded moon,
Should that be not less than I ought to say?
But were I to say, to the very same,
Would that not be then more than you should know?
Therefore, let me stand as did good Queen Bess,
And leave the question just as: Answerless.

Spring, now dressed in all her feral charm, has woken
daffodils, which lay hid’n in the sodden earth, to
repose upon the green velour of mossy banks
amid bluebells, who hang their pretty heads for to
woo the busy bees whose flight through the perfumed air
delivers the payload of their pollened legs to
each corolla, which, in winning her attention
enticed the bee with nectar sweet her work to do.
Long may this work go on, though spring it is too short,
yet when summer comes, and then the harvest time, will
another winter yield again to feral charm?
Glad may she now be on her dodecanal day!

However short the stay
All round you dare not delay
Reassured of change
You delineate the range
And manage the movement of all,
‘Til we come into line and see
In this your new way to be free

In cold December the wind blew warm.
In January did she no harm.
In February, her icy blast
chilled the earth to hold it fast.
In March she spoke, from within the storm,
to April, for whom this air be cast
and reply there came in silence felt.
None did speak, for nought was spelt
in runes upon the sodden grey earth,
for April’s showers in kindly mirth
did them efface beneath heaven’s vault
no trace to leave of any worth.

How then to say what must be said?
Be glad, rejoice in hope be led –
Another dawn, another day –
In an anniversarial way.

Spring has sprung with pleasant flair
The aroma of fresh grass fills the air
The daffodils follow the blooming bluebells
The butterflies sound out their silent knells.

But in the city, canephoras beckon
‘tis time to walk, but no companion
For whom Spanish fields will lend their fruit
Until time returns to reunite.