Corr Réisc ag Éirí as Dubhlinn an tSamhraidh
Jónaí an Scrogaill is í chomh trom
chomh fada sin
ábhar iontais i gcónaí é
nuair a osclaíonn
A sciatháin ar dhath an deataigh
is í ag iompú ó na huiscí dlútha,
ó mhaidí dubha
Linn an tsamhraidh,
éiríonn go mall
san aer
is tá sí bailithe léi.
Ansin, ní den chéad uair ná den uair dheireanach é
tarraingím domhainanáil
sonais, agus meabhraím dom féin
a neamhdhóchúla is atá sé
Gurb é atá sa bhás poll sa talamh
is nach féidir
nach mbeadh éirí ann,
bíodh go bhfuil cuma an-támh ar gach aon ní,
tarnáilte isteach ann féin –
an muscfhrancach ina lóiste cnapánach,
an turtar,
an geata a thit.
Agus tá sé go hiontach ach go háirithe
go bhfuil na samhraí fada
agus na linnte chomh dorcha is chomh líonmhar sin.
Mar sin ní haon mhíorúilt é
Ach rud coitianta,
an cinneadh seo,
na cosa fada aniar aici san uisce,
an chabhail throm seo á hoscailt
Isteach i mbeatha nua: féach seolta liathghorma
na sciathán aici i ngleic go tobann
leis an ngaoth: féach, i ngreim neamhní
a tugadh isteach í.
Heron Rises from the Dark, Summer Pond
So heavy
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron,
always it is a surprise
when her smoke-colored wings
open
and she turns
from the thick water,
from the black sticks
of the summer pond,
and slowly
rises into the air
and is gone.
Then, not for the first or the last time,
I take the deep breath
of happiness, and I think
how unlikely it is
that death is a hole in the ground,
how improbable
that ascension is not possible,
though everything seems so inert, so nailed
back into itself --
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge,
the turtle,
the fallen gate.
And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn't a miracle
but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body
into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(What Do We Know:Poems and Prose Poems)
