A forest was wandering the station
where I could bury thresholds in
the city a friendly softness
in a bouquet of blackcurrant leaves.
There was a forest at the library
where readers could daydream
about princesses cuddling stumps
whistle thoughts through the twigs
see how some of them shimmy along.
There he strides on stubby legs
graciously through the town centre
in search of heavenly songs
fortuitous around the corner.
Clovers weave on brush height
a cover of green hues let me
fold into the filtered sunlight
chance upon fresh nooks of city
delve into deep-rooted longings.
Calmly bopping foliage
catches delighted wild birds
on sounds of the heart
at the end like everything
apart but free and slow
in solid ground up into the air.
Translation: Trevor Scarse