From the Northern slopes of Ben Lomond
the South Esk flows
south
west
north
embracing smaller streams
until it finds anonymity
in the mighty Tamar.
Power station, dam
and Victorian pleasure grounds
scar its lower reaches.
Along its banks the thylacine once roamed
but it has run its course.
But no whim can tame the river.
It has been
modified
beautified
gentrified
but as it enters the Gorge
It chooses whether to roar
or trickle
on its pilgrim journey
to the sea
where the cycle of precipitation awaits
and soon
it will be raining again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem