Six miles of footpaths
Field, riverbank, dell, forest.
Cumulous and blinding blue.
The only sound the distant hum
Of power lines.
Cows fix me with baleful glares.
I am the invader.
In one field I feel a strong shove
And turn to see an outraged bovine face
Glowering from a foot away.
Cross an old quarry alive with rabbits,
Sink to my ankles in the muddy bottoms
Of the pastures.
At a fence I come across an old man looking at the sky.
'See that? ', he says, pointing.
'Wind southeast,
Rain over Preston.
Twenty minutes there'll be a shower.'
It was twenty-one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem