swaying mast of oyster boat
rock not by waves but tongs
trying to dislodge a chunks
of enter-locking bivalves
covered with sand, pebbles
under watchful eyes of gulls
at a distance two mast are
like chopstick holding sun
crimson rising on early morn
so beautiful coloring water
as it ripples to high tide
but oysterman just ride
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem