The summer evening ages
To silhouettes, and pin-head stars
And vespertine, the first
To serotine, the last,
Bats unfold strange names,
Flitting twilight, out of reach:
Bechstein.
Natterer.
Daubenton.
The men who loved them.
Their lives were a prayer
To God the naturalist:
Natterer elbowed his desk,
Bony fingers stretching wings apart
While Daubenton fished as the dusk fell,
In his beard a glint of teeth
As his bat hawked, low over water.
And the rarest? Bechstein?
Could this be him, I wonder,
Wrapped in his leather, upside down
Twittering hello?
Here is my net. I cast it out
To christen him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very nice work, I am ipressed by your use of imagery, M