Driving for the daisies
in September
as far back as I ever
can remember
up the long N7 flanked
by flowers
past dusty towns like paintings
half-completed
by an artist absent-minded
or defeated
wondering why such dazzling patches
of colour wander
so aimlessly up hillsides or along
these roadside ditches
why there is a sense of such
perfection everywhere
when so much of the canvas
is so bare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem