Leann úll glan, an solas ag taitneamh tríd,
nó (mar deir na Francaigh) buartha
brúite agus scamall bán trén lacht.

Ní hionann, is cuma,
cuireann sé an mearbhall draíochta céanna i mo cheann.
an dinglis mhírialta chéanna i mo mhéara.

Fíon geal neamh-mhilis nach tirim ar chor ar bith, ar theocht ceart,
rosé agus deora leis an ghloine,
dearg láidir de chuid an deiscirt – gaillac, b'fhéidir,

cuireann conspóid na mothúchán chun suaimhnis,
ruaigeann nathracha na rialachán thar farraige,
baineann meirg sin na díthe úsáide

de chomhrá ciúin na mbéal, an chnis,
na dteangacha in aimréidhe álainn, anáil
ag meascadh le mire.

 

Cider clear, light through it
or (as they say in France ) troubled,
crushed with white cloud through the glass.

Not the same, not different.
Sends the same magic confusion through my head,
the same itch to my fingers to do mischief.

Dry white wine that cannot but be wet, right temperature,
rosé with condensation beading on the glass,
a strong red of the south – gaillac, perhaps -

Generous in the mouth, sorts disagreement of the senses,
sends the snakes of rules and regulations back overseas,
rubs off the rust of underuse

From the silent conversation of mouth and skin,
of tongues in wondrous confusion, breath
mixing in madness.