See those happy cowslips bold yellow against the sky-blue,
hugged close by blackberries waiting green for September picking.
Many a gathering are there of dock cured stinging nettle,
many a scotch crowned purple thistle.
As Morley lane rises dusty to the campsite
crickets crack hot in the goosey meadow.
The bluebells fairy caps nod among the heavy ferns.
A monstrous hare springs surprised across the open campsite
and into the all concealing gorse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem