The mayflies ride the glides in slow procession
above the burbling eddies' low percussion;
their up-wings test the airs and dance in twitches.
His toe-taps and his fiddle-notes commingle,
one foot in double time, and one in single,
his bow-wrist drawing hints of lonesome touches
like wingtips brushing water. Blue and blurry,
a kingfisher skims by, a chattering flurry
that peels into a quietening pool of shadows.
And, leaning forwards, eyelids closed, his pulsing
body spring-winds and unwinds, convulsing,
as grace-notes rise like damselfly imagos.
Two merlins flex their wing-wrists and together,
stroking the winds with phalanges and feather,
they plunge and swing to horizontal planing—
he bends his elbow to the bow-stroke, wringing
the air and holds it long and double-stringing,
long and double-stringing, slow and gaining
power. Teals are slaloming meanders,
slip-streaming after arrowing mergansers
in echelons down the river. At the ocean
migrations, rafted on the estuary,
attune to Martin's call and, breaking free,
their surf of wings uprises with a motion
that rears and rolls towards the far horizon
in clouds composed of whirring masses, risen,
like dancers at a mediaeval fair,
uplifted by the music that has spurred
this journey: wings that beat without a bird—
the muscle-memory of County Clare.
The images are clear in the readers mind as he sways to the rhythm and flow of the poem Great work
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh, heck, I should just save myself some work and time and give all your poetry a blanket of starry-eyed 10's and a place on the top shelf of my fav list. You are a remarkable word smith. totally awesomely remarkable.
Thanks, Susan. You are very gracious. Thanks very much for reading and being so appreciative!