Clinton Scollard (Клинтон Сколлард)
At Killybegs
At Killybegs above the crags
The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,
And all the green trees are like flags
That wave and waver in the wind.
At Killybegs about the dunes
Rustle the crispy grass and whin,
And low the long tide croons and croons
As it creeps out, as it creeps in.
At Killybegs the white sails race
When the blue sea is like a floor;
Like doubt night falls with haggard face;
Sometimes the ships return no more.
The brown bee drains the cottage flowers
Of honey to their crimson dregs,
And love hath many happy hours
'Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!
Clinton Scollard’s other poems:
