Half spent the month of March.
A dry wind, the weather’s tart.
The gorse is red, so is the heath.
Nothing green in the fields,
Neither hay stuff nor bread stuff.
Nothing green, nothing.
Nothing except the rye
In the humped fields against the hill’s flank.
The rye mocks the winter,
Rye scorned, forgotten
By the well-begotten,
Rye, harvest of poor soils,
Harvest of poor souls
Green rye laughing,
Light-hearted rye singing,
As the poor sing
As the poor sing
In poverty.
June 1964.
Translated by Lenora Timm
