Child, pulled from the lap
of divided paths under
the strength of scarred arms.
Warm with stone root,
waiting to mix the brew
of old rain, grass and crossroads
under your boots.
You wile under branches that
are heavy with green
and obscure growth.
This calico angel, a farm girl,
waits in a church of milk cans,
(a silver circle)
for the diesel song
of the lorry.
You stay cool in the shade, a virgin
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Had to read it twice to appreciate it that its an oak growing...that's what I see and its great...regards