Dèr Mouw - one more sonnet

At times, taking a snowy winter path
past rows of beech, you find a hidden spot –
a sleeping trace of summer that forgot,
it seems, with long-gone swallows to depart:

No snow. Light gossamer. Some moss. A midge.

From sun-caught russet leaves a tit’s shrill cheep.

It’s almost as if words to charm from sleep

both sun and summer were within your reach.

So too, when you grow old, you suddenly

deep in your soul find some small memory

from childhood days when all was warmth and sun;

and in an instant vision may become

reality – you're taken there as well –

as if you briefly nearly knew the spell.