Setting: February. Light-brushed woods. Lean sheep slopes.
Dry-mudded lanes; often running straight through woods
whimsically; or rising to walkways above the bright air.
Up here
the daffodils are early.
1
The map jolting, reroutes; the pin
flings itself from motorway
loses it
in depth of road—not shown
past boles' eclipse
set loose on a white plane
then puddles seeping sky blue
become Thames
2
The Cowshed slate
running up to summer February
pitted stone
moated yew. Find the moon
in the rose garden
3
Out to the brushed trees
the home stable
wood safari:
get a pheasant profile
the wood-piled
corners
woods upon woods
4
River-town, sheep have been dotted down by the hill
crevice, grazing now by a mirror pool in the keen
closeness of wooded reflection.
Smiled upon by all remark: this several
county-wide
majestic blue. Find the moon
broken in the river
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem