How can I describe, my beloved one,
The mountain’s glory in the morning sun?
How can I tell you of the silent glade
In the snowy depths of the forest shade?
And how shall I capture for you the spell
Of the crystal showers in the frozen dell?
Schloss Kassegg.
February 1985
Five to eight,
Mist outside,
The lighthouse
Foghorn blows
And day tries
To get up.
Airport closed,
Dead taxis
Wait in lines,
No Sunday
Newspapers,
Dull morning.
Black trees in
Grey meadows,
Still cows built
Into mist
Imitate
The foghorn,
Calling down
The Cowman
Wellingtoned,
Great mallet
On shoulder,
To alter
Their tethers.
15th April 1971
The beard is grey and hair now thins apace
Which frames the contours of your Autumn face,
But mind is sharp, the body lither now
And age’s crown sits lightly on your brow.
So go you gently from your working years
To busier ones ahead and shed no tears
For what is past. That worthy task is done
And countless pupils to their futures gone.
Upon the sea a timely zephyr blows
And on the mountains lie eternal snows.
To you, great teacher, wise and laughing friend,
“Ad Multos Annos” is the wish we send.
1998
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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