Bisigoł Haleg

PUSSY WILLOWS

 

White flakes fly, fly,

Light like down,

In every shape, every size,

They turn, flit and glide.

Light snow, June's mock Snow:

Catkin wool of the willow...

A soft deluge on the lane,

On the roof of slate,

On the meadow. On the court.

On the garden. On the floor.

Slowly, descending serenely,

Like a summer's dream

To dream a mid-June day,

In the willow's shade.