A motorway, overwhelmed at dawn
by thousands of geese unwinding their skeins
on fields of translucent white, tea-leaves
to stir a storm, doodlebugs thudding
on pilgrimages to Ireland and Mourne,
whose wings beat three feet
above the warned wave of cobles
coasting the migration morning
of international geese, where our dawn
crosses under theirs.
A day on, our southward return
against the enticing rhythmic moon
setting a pace for language in its field-wise face
and the swing of strong wings -
the white owl lobs through the darkness
past cars' predictable pale darts
correcting the motorway's passive, unattended
calendar, its clock of ghosts.
[1997]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem