I sit by the cliffs at the foot of the hills
The sea ambles in
While the river infills
Gulls are but dashes in mist
And murrain with
Slingshot pebbles and bottles from Spain
Unrushed by the waving
But stirred by the sea
Writing the ripples of visions I see
Dark sketchy trees reaching out from the crags
Slivers of seaweed like ribbons on bags.
Here whispers the weather and
whips up my knees
And gentle white horses rear up in the breeze.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem