I walk towards the end
of a poem, each word a step
forward down the path:
sharp left around a fountain
of light and sound towards
rivers of evening shadows flowing soundlessly,
then through the gate
with the clumsy latch that always sticks.
Halting my passage into the open field.
Where I stand in the fullness of a sunset
realisation that journeys are not destinations:
merely steps, hesitations,
pauses, clumsy fumblings:
always changes, more endings, like words...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem