The Dreamt Tree

WHISTLING

The greenness, the drops on the forest floor
after the rain, the drops in moss and maidenhair,
the tall grass, the wet summer,
where the bird has a nest and the fox a lair.
It whistles in the trees, whistles in my head,
it sparkles, rushes, cold, hot, cold,
the drops tight in the leaf, it gleams, flashes,
when I touch the wetness, I shake the branches,
spread the shine, the wild glitter
that pours out of me too, heavy with light.
I open my mouth, stick out my tongue,
feel the wet, the star-coloured,
it whistles in the trees, whistles in my head,
the high summer, the wild grass,
your rain-wet taste, your raw fragrant rain,
I sink to the ground in the dark blazing greenness,
in a wedge birds rise high above the trees.

Whistling, translated by David McDuff