You ask again about the nests – the wren’s
hung in the ivy above the broken pier,
a goldcrest’s low in the privet,
the robin’s safe in the clump of pampas.
And below the Lane Gate coal tits
have built in the hollow post.
If you run your hand up the damp shaft
you’ll find the spot, where the metal is warm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem