Under Auriga

The arms of the firs struggle
in the wind, prayer flags waver and snap,
scraps of paper cartwheel
over the white-lined grass.
Let my memory be blown
out of your mind: let this winter
be the end of me.

Lyra will come
in Spring evenings scented with daphne,
Vega will burn in the calm mild air;
may no trace of me trouble the season.
May your purity of mind and strength of limb
rise from the first hot bath
of the turning year:
may you stand in clouds of steam
under stars that have never heard of me.