Going to get cold feet,
I take off my shoes,
knot the laces together,
and stand, sinking while I write.
Maybe twenty on Caswell,
children thick on life,
parents-a-grown.
A human starfish
sleeks under the foam,
prehistoric emblem
for the coast.
I see your house,
grand as 1910
in an evergreen fuzz.
Sculptured slopes
tearing the seas edge.
Scarring beautifully,
that corner of heaven,
saved for the few.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem