lólodúianchír
Rasmons are spearing
the droughted ground
of woods right now,
soon their starred
blossoms will signal
the breakthrough
of spring.
Late this year,
Late this year,
yet still it comes
on the wind. Listen,
you can hear the sea
clashering in the branches
clashering in the branches
of castanetting ashes.
Stand still
for a moment
and the pert, russet song
of robin will settle -
bright as a harmonica
- into your morning,
so that when you walk home
all you will hear is the sound
of green spring forging
of green spring forging
through the brittlenesss
of autumn.
of autumn.
“Lólodúianchír – robin”
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