If it isn't ours
I don't want it, this spring
with its spring-tide of light,
its splash of colours.

The bronze clouds, luxuriantly
stacked against flaming blue,
the trees flecked with the
finest green, motionless
in the dove-grey evening,
and the opal smile of rainbows
encompassing the globe
are wasted
on me solo.

Translation: 2009, Judith Wilkinson