Leaving Cambridge, again
(after Xu Zhimo)

I leave as carefully as I arrived,
saying goodbye with my hand
to the red clouds in the west.

By the river stands a golden willow
like a young bride as the sun goes down;
my heart will ripple with the look of her.

I wish I could be like that soft weed
growing from the ooze and doubled
in the movement of the Cam.

In the shade of elms one finds
a pond full of broken rainbow
– the sky’s dream falls to pieces here.

And speaking of dreamers, why not
punt upstream, where the grass is greener,
...