The renewal of a topical issue
returns me to a favorite theme.
Not at all romantically,
but because of the cold,
the early birds of Beverley
stay high on a winter morning—
and, I fear, because of the gases
that pool on the ground
and only disperse with warming,
and ooze into the homes
of the wingless burghers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem