After that
the only
thing she thought
mattered was
the sunlight
coming through
the tall trees
as you and
she lay on
your backs by
the large pond
listening
to birdsong
and the wind
coming through
the branches
and she there
full of life
breathing in
the sharp air
and she said
Van Gogh could
have captured
this morning
with the trees
and sunlight
and the way
the wind moves
through branches
and you said
but Renoir
despite his
arthritic
hands could have
captured your
young beauty
on canvas
somewhere off
a dog barked
a cow mooed
and your hand
like a crab
moved over
the green grass
and touched her
small warm hand
and she smiled
like da Vinci's
painting of
the Mona
Lisa you'd
seen in that
old art book
in the school
library
tucked between
a battered
old atlas
and book of
poetry
which no one
ever read
no doubt the
pond's still there
the sunlight
and the wind
but she's not
she gone now
all silent
amongst the
peaceful dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem