That dead tree that I'm about to cut,
proud with its crow bounty.
A few sheep mushroomed
fly scarved cattle fields
down the road,
you.
In the wardrobe
a new jacket
waiting to be worn old.
This winter
whatever the weather
I shouldn't be cold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a lovely poem, well done. Carol