The flaming gulls, stalled
in the lag of an abrasive wind,
are peeled across the sun
like orange rind.
In squalling air they loop
back and hang there
in gentler currents over the sea
that makes a tired sound.
Their splashing cries
can be faintly heard
as the slurring tide drags
the lapping evening in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem