Like the slow trickle of water
or the crumple of paper in the hand
the wasps take up residence under the roof
as they did last summer.
At first we do not hear them;
they are cunning as wolves,
accustomed to slipping ghosted
through the splintered cracks of solid wood and tile
to build their undulating nest
away from the innocent eyes of our everyday life.
For when the irregular crackle and hiss
of spiky tapping slips into our senses
it could so easily be
the dripping of rain along the gutter
steaming in sunlight
or the steady shifting of a house dying as it stands
which numbs our every thought
until we come almost to accept the thing we fear most.
And as in painstaking rhythm
they begin to mark what they count as theirs,
the slow stripe of possession,
stings golden with vengeance
for the many small deaths gone before,
then at last we hear them
as they ease through the folded swathe of conscience,
crawling just there under the skin
and filling our tormented ears
with hazy dreams of flight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem