WINTER FINCH

The small red finch
so deftly slips
from the swaddling
and unseeing snow
that all envelops,
and buries all,
he thrills
and puffs
his buff red bib,
flicks his tail,
turns the lanterns
on his wings, left
right, left,
preens the gold
fleck on his
pope and
aims
his beak
with an inspired eye
t’wards the ash’s
knobbly buds,
vibrates
his craw
as if an ember
sets his throat
ablush – 

and –

from the frozen holly,
snow divested
he escapes,
zips a zigzag trail of fire
across
the sky before
he fades,
a tint,
a sound,
that we tell each other,
and withhold,
and re-narrate
under the table lamp
when everything
has turned once more
to white and  black
and silence
as before.

WINTERVINK

WINTERVINK

Die klein rooi vink,
so koen
tiep hy
uit die omswagteling
wat oogloos als
begrawe en omring, 
hy ril,
en bol
sy rosse bef,
pof sy dons,
kwik sy stert,
rangskik die lanterns
van die linker- ,
en die regtervlerk,
poets
die goudvlek
op sy stuit,
rig
met ‘n verkwiekte blik
sy snuit
na botselknoppe
van die es,
vibreer
sy krop
tot warmrooi
sy keel
verblos –

en –

sneeuvry
laveer hy los
uit die bevrore
huls, rits
‘n vuurspoor
teen die lug,
voor hy verniks, 
’n tint, ‘n klank
wat ons mekaar
vertel,
verswyg,
en hervertel
onder die tafellamp
as als weer wit
en swart
geword het
en verstil.