Silent Saturday

sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of  the grave
the flags are lowered
the sails now slackened
the feet are covered
at last at rest

sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave

but unobserved
through granite walls
a genial breeze begins to play
all the trees pick up  their tiny ears
the fog  undulates itself into new shapes
wind, trembling, slowly strolls
across the graveyard
a grave's about to burst
before the rising sun

                                       [tr. from Frisian; Tiny Mulder]