The countryside sleeps,
feet on the fireguard,
and dreams of people
swelling its muddy banks.
Morning sees an early boy,
grinning displeasures;
bread-fisted.
His backbone is the spine
of centuries,
as clouds sail above
his damp hair
and a war-like noise punishes
the farms where he walks
in and out like a document.
He lays to sleep
by the countryside,
a bundle of clothes in the hearth.
What he doesn't know
won't kill him,
irreverent Magna Carta.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You give such an insight to the subject matters in your poetry, always a pleasure to read your works. You're going to catch on like wildfire Mr Jordan, get ready! HG: -) xx