England's rivers throng this sky.
Dogged by skua westerlies
clouds disgorge pans
as men left them, slate seams
veined with native iron.
Tussock moor: my track dissolves.
A croft, abandoned, huddles
in a lee of pines at habitation's limit:
still, into a pool of spume
its spring somersaults, gleeful, whisky rust.
Nimbostratus poises.
I splash-face, taste the ore,
a curlew whimpers:
Welsh water emigrates
to Severn plains, and the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i enjoyed this poem..thank you