Only the high elm, stark
against the unbirded sky
breaks the apparitional
tide of congealing air
descending like a dropcloth
over stone walls, hedging
a forsaken field. Etched
like a silhouette against
frosted glass, impatient
for the plunge of night
the elm's branched fingers
arch, whorls of bark screak
against pewter dusk,
clawing down a calm dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem