Studs Poem by Ronnie Smith
Studs
I sat on that warm concrete step,
feeling the redness of my face.
On every one of those nights I watched,
through the trees of the surrey glen,
the sun setting on the dark Cowal hills.
I heard the cattle lowing
on the slopes behind me and
the ball still slapping on tarmac, somewhere.
And felt the sharpness of my worn studs
on my rough bare fingers as I flicked
more dry mud into the flower bed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/2/2024 6:23:57 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Into the flower bed! With the status of your work. Thanks for sharing.