I bale,
he drives,
piles growing into
hot heaps of ambrosial hay.
August sun, dropping off, says
-get a move on,
it’s a rain-free day,
but a one-day offer!
The wee hours descend
as headlights flame,
elucidating vital work.
Then she comes,
all in brown
and hand-me-downs
and weak thermos- tea
in careworn wicker-
and bread and cress
and egg,
and invisible malignancy within,
bitingtuggingnibblinghacking
at ovaries,
a vixen-violated
henhouse,
in the dead of
winter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very good work. I must read more of yours. Danny