An old September, impeccable.
Guests in white shoes,
a lawn party seven years ago.
Scent on the air, maybe posies
drying on a tray; face powder,
pomade deep as black purple.
Voices across the emerald pool,
a line of Adirondack chairs;
scones centered on a linen cloth.
The diving board’s flat timbre
after a swimmer's final catapult;
the clipped grounds, croquet court;
rouged guests move to the baths
like Japanese figures.
Mottled shade, a subdued afternoon.
The three man combo disappears.
Ja Da.
The droll Airedale taken home
now seven years ago.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem