PUSSY WILLOWS

White flakes fly, fly,
Light like down,
In every shape, every size,
They turn, flit and glide.
Light snow, June’s mock Snow:
Catkin wool of the willow…
A soft deluge on the lane,
On the roof of slate,
On the meadow. On the court.
On the garden. On the floor.
Slowly, descending serenely,
Like a summer’s dream
To dream a mid-June day,
In the willow’s shade.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton





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