Black Kerry cows are out at last in the hill fields
And we live on the promise of the month of May;
Dark clouds hover over the giant wind turbines,
High and white on the straggling Stacks Mountains
And spotlighted sporadically by a flirtatious sun;
Their blades turn nonchalantly at the wind's will,
Weather weary after this year's wettest scarbheen-
The stand off between the Summer and the Spring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem