Voorjaar
Kyk, al die klein skerp trekswaeltjies kom terug,
swart weerhakies geprik op mika lug.
Klein en verkluim in hierdie leeë ruim,
gesnavel en gewiek en somersiek
spits sy haar dag na dag in teëvlug.
Sy soek ’n nis wat tussen newels is
en sak al aweregser van die drang
om neer te tol of een nog deernisvol
sy hande hol hou om haar op te vang.
Spring
Look, the pin-pointed swallows are all returning,
black barbs pricked out on a mica sky.
Small and chilled in these empty heavens,
beaked and winged and summer-sick, day
after day sharpening themselves in counterflight.
Seeking an alcove midst the clouds
and falling ever more contrarily from the urge
to spiral down than out of compassion someone
might cup his hands to catch them safe.
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