Niall Campbell

after Boris Pasternak

This, my recurring winter day,
I spend recalling younger winters –
those days and twin-like days of white
and little more – are to me distinct

since each remembered hour confirms
the truthfulness of memories
of a season without time,
or one where time seems barely moving.

Those details as clear as ice or glass,
the winter young but getting older,
the thaw-lined roads, the dripping roofs,
sun-light reflecting off the frost,

and lovers huddled close together,
more from love than from the cold.
While in the trees the old bird-houses
are damp, and wet, and empty.

Something more than the clock-hand stalls
at this moment, this single moment,
that I have lengthened past the day
when we kissed our one unending kiss.