Northern Roses

by Lajos Áprily (1887-1967)

It was no dream: colours and fragrances,
Not eastern spell, but north’s reality.
It was late autumn, and yet the roses
Bloomed in St Andrews, above the sea.

'The Gulf Stream,' said my professorial friend,
'Is known to visit these our Scottish shores.
Fresh lawns and sumptuous flower-beds, end to end,
Reach inland from the East Sands to The Scores.'

But my own land is trembling with the blight,
The coming of the European Frost:
Oh that the Gulf could hold us, cure us quite,
Before we shrivel up and sink almost,

So we’d ignite a colour or two, going down,
And even greet the winter florally,
Just like those gardens in that snod wee town,
St Andrews, there above the northern sea.

Transcreated by TOM HUBBARD with ATTILA DÓSA

(snod: comfortable, neat, well-ordered)