Cris de Borja

Is thy day’s joy from a wandered child?

Bloomed in whited plumage of leaves

Aged forest, or of my sigh

Nature’s singing, sweet and wild?

Can words poured from a hollow well mock creation?

Apprentice god, I make of script a depthless landscape

Printed flowers hast thou  for gardens.

What happiness can I give thee?

Rivers of ink, run dry,

One patch of uncertain blue

For all thy sky.

Will murmured words become thy mountains

Scratching curls, thy towns and streets

And hilly lanes, and roofs of houses

Rise from crisply folded sheets?

Emotion’s compass moves which way from me?

Can one breath of moisture caught

Return thee to the sea?

1991