Dozing While it Rains.
In the half-land when sleep has crept close
but consciousness still lingers. Images scissor.
There is a sigh of hem against stocking.
A wisp of blue smoke. A hand holds a cup,
little finger crooked in tea-time elegance.
And downstairs an old man shuffles.
The cardigan is holed. Wool worming
out of frayed edges. His pat liver-spotted.
He bends his neck to gaze into a meagre grate.
Picks up a faded photograph and listens
to the birds circling as he remembers the noise.
Outside, reflections in a silver pavement
flutter against passing eyes.
rain tumbles to glimmering windows
and the sleeper turns over, to the rhythm of the fall.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem