Where the pond laps cool at Clapton Common.
With still no sign of malign, incipient stormclouds,
Skittish seagulls swirl, whirl, wheel and scream loud
Around the flashing, splashing fast-spouted fountain
A grey-white whirlwind of bright wing and feather
Merged together with the urgent surging water.
Run-fast massed spray splashes on the dappled surface
Wearing now deftly soft-wash dash of whiteness
Till high clouds, bound tight with dull, dour, fine drops,
Shroud the sky, and paint the little ripple-circles
Grey as the gulls to simply spin out, gentle,
Still not wind-pushed hectic from the centre.
Sundry stormclouds of an urban work-week
Also darken brightly-dawning morning outlooks
Like the gathering grey-wing whirling gull-flocks,
Spirit-sapping like the ripple-damping duckweed,
Figures start to swirl around upon the paper
Screaming, like the early seagulls, time to labour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem