She doesn't ride the gunwales
of a clipper,
but the cantle of a saddle
across the deep green lea
and it is the creak of leather
not of promenade nor deck
that she hears with every rock
upon each swell of hillock
as the ocean churns below
against her knee.
(May 30,2008)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem