Silver leaves beneath the water
lay layered and unmoving
as though painted on the stream bed
discarded love letters, inkless
draw deep my tear-filled eyes
straining to read forgotten words
near the old wooden bridge, that
gives beneath my passing feet
like the press of a familiar hand
and the snow here gives way too
moving water and thirsty birds, where
a chorus of us are drinking, drinking
before a stone-still silent audience
of green reeds standing in the frozen pond
struck unsuspecting, as I have been
I have crossed another bridge
passing point to point in my time
a melting stream, a frozen pond
from there to here, and now
beyond
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful work, Gordon Menzies, and touching too.