soft grey sky clothed so deep
in its wand'ring clouds like sheep
wetly dripping everywhere
clinging at my skin and hair
still so subtle palest green
misting twines at boughs yet lean
buds of leaves that yet to come
will wring sustenance from the sun
sprawling branches, 'neath drenched tatters
rust 'midst leaf-mould, last year's afters.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem