Am fleistear / The fletcher

Caoran, mar fuil air goil, làn dùirn dearg
dòrtadh as na meuran craoibhe-chaorainn
'na aonar am measg an iùbhrach neo-bhàsmhor,

is duilleagan umhach, donn, soilleir-bhuidhe sa coille eile,
is duilleagan eile clò-bhuailte le dath fala orra,
is eile coltach ri cléiteagan's iteagan aotrom is beaga:

tha fleistear ann an t-Fhoghar,
a' lorg a saighead anns an saoghal maoiseach seo,
an ite an earbaill ann gach duilleag a' tuiteam,
ceangailte air an smeòirn saighde leis.

Tha e a' stalcaireachd
is a' dèanamh cuimse air an Dàmhair,
is an guin béire a' curadh crioch air bliadhna
mar damh-féidh sa lànachd.

Hot clumps of berries, like boiling blood, red fistfuls

spilling from the branches of a rowan tree

alone amidst the immortal yew grove. 

and elsewhere, brazen leaves, brown, bright yellow in the wood,

and others printed with the colour of blood on them,

and other leaves like light little flakes and feathers. 

Autumn is a fletcher, 

finding his arrow in this mosaic world,

a tail feather in each leaf that falls

fastened by him to the arrow's nock.

He is stalking and taking aim at October

and the point's sting puts and end to a year

like a rutting stag in its prime.