In mastodon cold, the lichen clamps on stone
walls and the shins of trees picked to spine,
its branches scrawling a Saxon script.
The blunt lake glints in a guttering light,
shutting itself with a pewter lid,
welded in a grip of Nordic tones:
dull silver, salt gray, vein-blue;
with punitive butts, the wind compacts
the pallid, occlusive waste.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem