[Rites of the evening glen] Poem by Michael Donhauser

Rites of the evening glen
path and violence the eyes
burst open buds we said
look and the sky glowed
the mountains attuned

From over the river the
traffic flowing water the
stones ti penso and always
with pebbles brushwood
leaves I've thought of you

Warming levee coltsfoot
you wept your hands
sank tired and fleeting
shadows bare brushed
the asphalt with their lips

Up flew a blackbird jabbering
called whistling warbling
jubilant with pauses and now
comes they called it a dwindling
ribbons rippling wires the path

Translated by Iain Galbraith.