Member Poem

Oplaas is die takke kaal benaak
na bedeesde maande al te laat.
Nóú is die tyd van straatveërs
en hul harke, en die blare in die geet.
Nou’s die dae van hande blaas
met warm asem, en hande vryf.
Die friksie van die winterslyf.
 
As aanwysing van sy vroomheid
maak plataan sy sielslyf blyk.
En altekenne teenoor die
wat eens sou skuil onderkant
groen lanings wat die son
vir ons bewaak.
 
Maar nou is daar g’n son,
en nou is daar g’n blare;
behalwe vir die rooi-bruin hare
al vergaande in die geet.
 
Maar ons vergeet.
Ons sàl vergeet;
vêr verby die wintersdood
wag vir ons ‘n lente.
 
 
Translation:
 
At last the branches are unclothed,
a long time late after coy months.
Now is the time of street sweepers
and their rakes, and the leaves
ammasing in the gutter.
Now are the days with warm breath
blowing on our hands,
and rubbing them together.
The winter body’s friction.
 
As a notice of his piety
the sycamore bares his soul
that we may know, we
who would once take shelter
beneath green canopies
that keep us guarder from the sun.
 
But now there is no sun.
Now there are no leaves;
but for the auburn hair
decaying in the gutter.
 
But we forget.
We will forget;
beyond the dead of winter
there awaits another spring.