For Pip and Tom
The mistrusting mountains are silent
in their approval; grudging in their respect
for our clumsy efforts with the earth,
our movements minuscule like ants,
lacking the precision of machinery.
Skittish cows like plastic farm animals
are scattered from the hand of a child —
giant around the tufted ankles of mountains,
who are patient in their watching,
enduring the cloven feet of cattle, marking
their skin with tiny scars. Colonised amicably
by grass, the mountains observe it licking
the feet of trees in the undefined edges
of forest. They are grey with their brooding,
quiet in their mistrust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem