Tuesday 6 November 2012

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.

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