The last ringing of the church bell grows silent
Lost in the dreamy blue haze
There is no other sound in this warm Hour
Except the timid song of a cricket deep in its crevice
Accompanied by the popping of shafts of gorse
And the mournful laments of a shy robin
In the sloe’s black thorns above the narrow cartpath.
Summer 1967.
Translated by Lenora Timm
