May 2011

The whitethorn is incredibly profuse this year, gloriously shrouding whole hedegrows, weighting branches down with the abundance.

Snowy blossom drifts
sweet almond scent hangs heavy
as the laden lmbs.



The foreign fields of rapeseed, incongruous here, in this land of greens.

Rape fields shock the eye
Startling vivid patches
in the hills’ green quilt.



The sky emptied on us, turning streams into torrents, bringing out the flies, making, at least, the swallows happy.

River brown in flood.
Swallows mob the yellow weir.
Heron stalks the pools.



Níl sé ina Shamhradh fós, áfach, tá gaoth fhuar ag séideadh inniu.

Loinnir glas na mbeith.
Tá faobhar an fheothain fuar fós.
Critheann sprúis gorma.

[Green shimmer on the birches.
There’s still an edge to that wind.
The blues spruce shivers.]



Samhradh, Samhradh, bainne na ngamhna, thógamar féin an samhradh linn….

Ivy-leaved toadflax

under the red, rusty gate,
tiny blooms basking.