based on Yang Hsiu's "When the moon is in the river of heaven"
the gruff branches of the scots oak
shelter the old folk from the gusts of modernity
enveloped in the shade of green perfume
filled with drops of smirr.
why are their linked arms so poignant?
is it only to provoke the fragile
fears, loss of love, loss of youth?
my mind, swollen with uncertainty,
i wander in this sacred park.
and then my doubt and confusion disappear
my mood brightens and my smile returns.
the moon, lovely enough to wake the dead
sinks to the horizon, and suddenly
i am happy to grow old.