Fourways

 Fourways

Suggested by Heine

They buried him at the fourways,
Hoping his ghost would frown
In puzzlement at the fourways
And never get back to town.

Bluebells grow at the fourways
And sweeten the air with their breath,
Under the trees at the fourways.
Blue is the colour of death.

I stood all alone at the fourways
Where he lies under the ground
And watched the moon at the fourways
Steering the shadows round.

This is not a translation of Heine. One of his poems acted as a prompt for it but the two are very different. For one thing his poem has eight lines and mine has twelve...

Sunset

 Sunset

The maiden wept on the headland
Because the sun had set.
O, such a sensitive flower she is!
Dry your eyes, my pet,

And sit you down on the headland.
Although the night be black
In twelve short hours or maybe less
The sun will rise at your back.

This is still not quite a translation of Heine but cleaves closer to his words and sentiments. God, but he was a sarky sonofabitch.

Brush

 Brush

I work all day in the garden
Then wipe out my tracks with a brush
So no-one will know there was anyone there.
Hush,
Hush,
Hush...