Circles have thawed beneath pine trees, as though
Circles have thawed beneath pine trees, as though
Around tired eyes.
The tops of empty birches sway –
Damp bell towers
Bereft long ago of their green and
Deciduous bells –
And overhead the wind, like an axe,
whistles.
And light has decayed, and fits over fields
Like cranial bones.
February has turned scrooge at last, worn and
Money-grubbing.
Yellowed ice glimmers like bone beneath a
Pussy willow candle,
While a crow pecks away at dead snow,
Grey, prophesying.
Translated by Emily Hardiment
Page(s) 237
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