Last week I read Seamus Heaney’s Death of a Naturalist, published the year I was born.
Morreu un naturalista
absorto na vexetación arrincada
que maina viaxa río abaixo
un cacho de plástico amarelo
e o cercado laranxa
das obras na ponte
póñenlle cor de realidade
á escena bucólica
desta corrente zigzagueante
esquivando rañaceos
pasa unha gaivota
pelexando co vento
por alá abaixo, abaixo
lonxe das plumas
os chíos e a frenética busca
de alimento e territorio
comeza a chover
(ou é a miña preguiza)
o paseo pola dársena
para avistar limícolas
fica no eido das ideas adiadas
*
Death of a naturalist
*
A naturalist died
absorbed in the uprooted vegetation
that travels unhurried downstream
a piece of yellow plastic
and the orange fence
of construction work on the bridge
add a touch of reality
to the bucolic scene
of this zigzagging stream
dodging skyscrapers
a seagull passes by
fighting the wind, down there, down
away from feathers
mewings and the frantic search
for food and territory
it starts to rain
(or is it my laziness)
the walk along the dock
to spot waders
remains in the realm of postponed ideas
abel abilheira 