Poems

Do not cry, golden-eyed frog,
in the pond's weedy water.
Like a great conch
the night sky roars.
Its roaring calls me home.

My scythe shouldered
I walk down the bright main road,
dog's howling round me,
past the smithy's grime
where darkly the anvil sleeps.

Down by the outwork
the poplars flicker
in the moon's milky light.
Still the meadows exhale heat
in the crickets' screeching.

O fire of the earth,
...