ST. GUILLEM AND THE SUNDIAL


 
 
The snow melts,
the weather clears,
fresh winds blow;
spring draws nigh.

 
The shadow of
this broken blade
(from my old sword)
melts too, each day.

 
Afternoon
unsheathing it,
in far-off woods
it melds with night.

  
         *

 
By stony hills
I battled, once,
the bitter storms
of infidels.

 
But enmity,
venal delay
here tether me
against my will:

 
Jerusalem
remains afar,
captive yet
to useless war.

  
         *

 
I am stilled
as this sundial.
As rusty swords
pursue my shade

 
into dark woods,
I’ll follow them      
(blind pilgrim, so)
to vernal tomb.