Translated by Bernie Kenny:
Men gather seaweed cast upon the shore,
pile trailers high with loads which weep
like mountain streams after a week of rain.
Red tractors haul the trailers up small roads.
The spreader lays seamanure on hungry fields.
Like rags on thorn bush at a holy well
dry fronds flap against a barbed wire fence.
Some crackle, brittle underfoot in this a rare dry spell.
Rain downpours at night
and turns the ground to slush.
Sheep, in search of grass,
wade through sea-stalks, eating dulse
and salt sea-smells rise from the earth.
Sure now of a crop of fertile grass,
the trailers take to bog roads,
harvest fire and heat
from drowned bog banks.
Bailíonn na fir an fheamainn chladaigh
Agus imíonn trucailí faoi chnocán ard de lasta
A chaoineann srutha sléibhe, seachtain báistí.
Imíonn na trucailí ar bhóithre beaga, ar chúl seantarracóirí dearga.
Leathann an spreader an fheamainn ar an pháirc ghortach, mar a leathfadh sé aoileach bóithigh.
Tá cuid den fheamainn thirim plastaráilte ag an ghaoth
Leis an sconsa sreinge thart ar mo gharrdha,
Nó in ribíní mar a bheadh giobail dhaite a feistíodh
De dhraighean ag tobar beannaithe.
Cuid eile, briseann siad, briosc, faoi mo chois san aimsir thirim seo.
Titeann fearthainn rith oíche, i rith an lae, tá an talamh cáidheach,
Snámhann na caoirigh go mall idir an fheamainn ag cuartach féir,
ag ithe duilisc,
Agus líonann boladh na farraige in ainneoin aird na gaoithe.
Barr maith féir cinnte acu,
Imíonn na trucailí beaga ar bhóithre an phortaigh go siosmaideach, gnóthach
A dhéanamh míorúilt na tine de na bachtaí báite.
Copyright: Gréagóir O’ Dúill
From the collection ‘Gone to Earth’
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