Seventeen years ago, the sun so glaring
It paled the eating flame invisibly
I burned love letters under such a tree
The silence lingered overhead
Tolerant of petty apostasies
Sober funereal trees
As Virgil said.
This other cypress
Menaces the hot shade
Like an old assegai's discoloured blade
Offers its stinging kiss.
No use affecting unconcern
Looking the other way
In this sun-darkened domicile today
Whose letters shall we burn?
Snow-masked and bell-bewitched the village
Supports a stratus architrave,