A very free translation from the Irish.
I drive north into hill country,
the hard breast of the hills;
the car straining over the slopes,
yielding to the inexorable authority
of the gears. The way is difficult,
the weather uncertain, my bones weary.
I lift my eyes to the sky’s curve;
the heavy clouds thick with the threat
of snow and sleet, storm-signs,
thunder’s explosive potential.
But suddenly, emerging from the clouds
out into the blue-green immensity of clear sky,
the slim silver figure of a glider, wings rigid –
a cross carved on the face of the firmament,
a blessed and unexpected revelation.
The thermal currents carry him beyond logic;
hanging on nails of belief, feathers of faith;
a man defying gravity, the storm dogs
snapping at his fleeing heels.
Man and metal merging, burnished
in the brilliance of sunlight;
a messenger from Olympus,
a harbinger of hope, pure and bright.