A line of stones,
the threat of so much space,
a fallen horizon.
Salt grass
coarse with rain,
nights heavy with tides
and the battered steel
of the sea, the broken gong
of the moon, strange friends.
Then, I know not what to call
the rought curves of peat,
slight of the sea,
a bodhran wind over the rocks.
When I am no more,
let me melt in the rain
of this cold coast,
its own name shaped,
the seagull`s call.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem