Country of rains
and foul weather; nomadic silence;
like a white loaf hung
in the zenith, your
moon is broken.
Beyond the ploughland grows
the raspberry-coloured goosefoot.
A ripe star glows
golden on the boughs
of cloud, like a fruit.
Again along the highroad,
your sorrow notwithstanding,
I breathe with bliss the smell
of the summer corn
along the water turning blue.
The marsh mist smokes and thickens.
But in the felt, melodious dark
your hills are satisfied,
in animal dumbness replete.