A lustreless
black, it slept all night
in a shed with the relics
of a different era:
a crumbling harness,
broken tools, a horseshoe
nailed to the wall -
then gargled to life
on busy mornings
when we drove
into town or to Mass.
Down the lane
the old man nudged it
as it lurched on
wrecked suspension,
its bodywork
strafed by brambles,
until at last
he coaxed it out
onto the open road;
and all those trips
we made in convoy
across that rambling landscape:
Enniscrone, Pontoon and back.
So many kids
and so much lumber -
the whole bloody tackle!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem