Willows

Here all is colorless sky, and the earth a plasticine board

Where the water seeps through.

The hedges are trimming thrown in,

And so much is water, oh those willows were poured:

They never grew.

Spineless and skinny and cold,

They make no resistance

But die back a little as if they would evaporate,

Left hanging out on the clothes-line of existence,

Forlorn, spiritual, delicate.

Water maidens! adding themselves to the sky

As if they had stepped out of the water

And, unable to get back, sigh,

Lifting fine thin fingers to hide a titter of laughter . . .

while below in the river

The ghosts of the ghosts catch cold, and shiver.

George Moor

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