That summer I cupped my hands
To catch the mellifluous wisdom of bees
An eagle soared over Loch Voile
But no-one noticed
It set you in its sight
Coming, ready or not it croaked,
In the playtime speech of childhood
The day was perfect in that hilly, happy land
Glimmering with petals and birds
The dappled grass, bright with jade green beetles
You couldn’t have picked a better day to die
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem