We gather in the tangled wood with our buckets and bowls,
rise the grassy slopes, our hopes locked in the sweet promise of the knotted hedgerows, harbour of the autumn tides.
The young ones scramble through twisted wires of briar that tears
anorak and skin to seek the glinting fruits washed by the night
fired rain. A jackdaws eye held in time.
But our haul is a miser's gift, a shallow feast this fall.
Returning defeated down the oozing track we tossed our bowls
to the wind, a shotgun of crows blasted to earth.
No sweet wine to taste the winter's fire this year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem