no reflection in the plate-glass window of the Charity Shop
no clinking of spurs
creaking of chain-mail
as he flexes his sword-arm
no alarm when he raises his vizored face
towards a galaxy faraway
beyond the placement of the trees
fanning-out above the slate-grey rooves
and the red-brickness of it all
with lack of purpose
he counts the bricks in a section of the wall
if only her mobile-pone had photographed through glass
but now the light had changed
her coffee unexpectedly cold
and somehow the cup-handle slightly disarranged
the shadow that crossed the street to touch her cheek remained
and she wonders 'bout the opportunity that passed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem