keith holyoak

     The fine grass
by the riverbank stirs in the breeze;
     the tall mast
in the night is a lonely sliver.
 
     Stars hang
all across the vast plain;
     the moon bobs
in the flow of the great river.
 
     My poetry
has not made a name for me;
     now age and sickness
have cost me the post I was given.
 
     Drifting, drifting,
what do I resemble?
     A lone gull
lost between earth and heaven.

© 2004 by Keith Holyoak (translator)
First printed in Candelabrum Poetry Magazine (2004)