Through a tungsten mist
drifts a discourse of light
startling the swallows,
silhouetting their flight
as they flit from the matrix
of willow and brush
that hide the blind's stare
and the wildfowler's shot.
Dew drops ellipse;
each a vignette of sky
that cling like glass beads
to the camouflaged sides
and the rusting tin roof
of this island maimai.
A mute of white swans
raft into dawn's blush
rippling the stillness,
amplifying the hush.
As I frame their wild beauty,
a skein of thoughts fledge
as I reflect on the choice
between barrel and lens...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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