The falls of Lora spin
rapids in a flat sheet of water
where the Loch runs to the sea
and hits the tide.
Come between moons
and you will see turbulence,
whirlpool and eddy
where sills like glass pour down,
the surface gives inches
and ripples determine direction
with circular doubt. You will walk
on slippery grass and rock
where rowan and brambles
and a crabapple tree
separate the small car park
from sloped bridge hinterland.
Directly above the falls
the road bridge made from a rail bridge
takes unheeding traffic north.
For Lora has few addicts.
But come at the new or full moon
to the point of tide-race
and you will know white water
window framing the surface
you will see photographers
creep beyond bounds
or scale bridge-ponts
to secure a shot,
canoeists race the breaking waves,
aficionados hang back by the cars
aware of a rare sight
that will crowd memories,
or if you are lucky
it will be a secret meeting,
you alone with
the inexplicable tide.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem