There are no more than three of them,
neatly unpicked from the cross-stitch
of a yellow country scene,
three strands of beings, fishing –
and rods arched over the river like
small inadequate bridges,
as they sit against the blue, hatted.
And here and there a shallow sound
baits the day, climbing back up
the reeds like a wet dog,
to cluster in their ears with the crickets
and the last threads of the evening.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Totally love this. It paints such a picture that could be anyone's living room or a drawing room in an era gone by, it matters not, this piece is timeless. Great work here. HG: -) xx