The seagulls, in from Sligo Bay,
Upland to fields at Ladies Brae,
Father and son tractor work over
Field grass haircut tight and saved.
Now in coiled rolls the grass is harvest like
And sun burnt not now green and blowing
But drawn like gold in furnace kiln.
Back down to barn brought for keeping,
Now its late evening. The bright morning sun
Makes way for the moon.
Milky way and evening light.
The seagulls dancing and diving
Quickly make light with crows of its late
Dinner.
From field to page my memories of farmland.
The crows gleaning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem