Mountain views in our vistas,
queues in the wet,
a trickle of gardeners furling umbrellas
under chestnut trees,
Roses drip from arbours, the burnlet
thunders through slippery lawns.
Gravel gleams past peat and greenery,
blue poppies in force.
Round by the stables we barter
for snowdropp bulbs,
compare delphiniums, replenish
our iris beds.
We trail through high herbs hedged with box.
Misty scenery
caves us at waterfalls where birds keep dry,
while for this hour
the sky's blue and white flower closes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem