It lûkhynder
Us tilbury wie te licht
En ús hynder te loch en âld.
Mei in stikkene lampe riden wy
Troch in pikswart, grinsleas wâld.
Ut it beamte ferskynde in man,
Griep ús hoars by de kop, ûnferhoeds,
En struts it hynder oer de bealch
En stuts him dea, willemoeds.
It groulivige bist stoarte del
Mei in krak fan in boom dy’t bruts.
Ien aaklike siging hold lang oan
Doe’t de nacht troch de beammen luts.
Wy, it minst abbelearjende pear
Dat it needlot naam sa’t it kaam
En it meast ûngenegen en neam
It faker as nedich ynfaam,
Namen oan dat de keardel sels
– Of hie ien him der opdracht ta jûn? –
Dit fan ús woe: stap mar ôf,
It fierdere paad wurdt der rûn.
The Draft Horse
With a lantern that wouldn’t burn
In too frail a buggy we drove
Behind too heavy a horse
Through a pitch-dark limitless grove.
And a man came out of the trees
And took our horse by the head
And reaching back to his ribs
Deliberately stabbed him dead.
The ponderous beast went down
With a crack of a broken shaft.
And the night drew through the trees
In one long invidious draft.
The most unquestioning pair
That ever accepted fate
And the least disposed to ascribe
Any more than we had to to hate,
We assumed that the man himself
Or someone he had to obey
Wanted us to get down
And walk the rest of the way.
Ut In the Clearing, 1962