The cormorant in its plunging moment,
its fish seeking victory, fixed as a tiny
slice of eternal frozen morning.
Older than the crumbling stone which cups
the bay, a rite more real than hunger,
as vital as the pale, receding dawn.
I stand and watch this ominous bird,
this messenger from mowhere, these few
forced lines the only thought it brought me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Excellent - a very enjoyable read.