The hawthorn branches' lightning lines
are paralleled by seams of white
as snowfall mantles them, each jagged
angle traced,
each pronged and ragged
fork embalmed, perhaps embraced.
Around the fields, old stunted pines
grow flocculent with flakes. Despite
the fires within, the farms are wooled
with snow, their sills
and gutters ruled
and cushioned with small corniced hills.
The drystone dikes have scalloped crests.
On open moors, the windward sides
of standing stones blockade the blow,
black and upright,
till driving snow
feathers them into background white.
The moaning wind stravaigs and quests
but one communal call abides:
as flurries hover, glide, and fall
among the drifts,
inside a hall
a cellist's hand position-shifts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem