on Connolly's hill
a tractor whirrs
a reedy whistle plays along
with the piping river
the air is a string breeze that
stirs the ears of corn
what separates and stretches
into listening spaces
hilly harmonies, lanes where
the sun jingles on briar-berried hedgerows
summer gathers what can't
be grasped
and composes itself
as if each piece
is its complete air
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem