Sunday they were still grey
And their branches naked,
The row of poplar trees
So tall and so thin
On the edge of the meadow,
Contemplating their image,
In the dark water of the Leger.
—Today they’ve changed color.
They’re neither pink nor yellow,
Nor are they at all green.
It’s a subtle shade, known only
To the Great Painter…
Tender, delicate and fragile,
Like an idea germinating
In the mind of a child.

January 1963.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton

Print Friendly, PDF & Email