The back lane, alternative route –
a full hedge, honeysuckle, vetch
of green-blue stronger than sky,
a poem at the end of the lane,
a haunted barn – emptiness,
a bridge under broken railway,
a hill for no reason. The hedge turns down
among low, sheltered, well-watered fields.
Above is the terrace, bleak high –
bracken and adders – its road metal
light grey and warm. I choose the lane
this time, and still more honeysuckle,
tentacled, tree-dimensional, whiskered,
in stronger and better colours
than the whitish wild rose or the pinkish
wild rose or deeper pink wild rose,
all with stamens all with prickles.
Down this lane I plunge
headlong, relentless, propelled by chance –
or is it deliberate, is this lane
the acceptance of beauty,
an appeal, an approval, a realisation
that nature is art? That selections
from nature make art, and great handfuls
such as bunches of honeysuckle,
already made wood carvings or the sight
of Scottish mountains, the climbing
of them for perspective or going to Africa
America or the Orient for perspectives,
is art, and for me, whether the chosen
honeysuckle lane is in Scotland or England,
the Lune or the Teith near it,
and whether it's under my viewpoints,
the adder and bracken, the choice matters?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem