In the grass by my right hand a cigarette lays,
so I watched as the fumes wove the breeze,
and tobacco turned ash, in the blink of an eye,
gone as life, up in smoke, through the trees.
On the green where I lay, in say fifty years time,
contemplating or writing their dreams,
will the world feel secure, will these blades still endure?
Will they wonder who planted these schemes?
I look up to the path, hearing footsteps go by,
yet there’s nothing but me and the day,
I’m imagining people who’ve trodden that walk,
all their worries have now died away.
Was the Anderson down in that corner of stone,
as the air raid howled over these Brits?
And they ran from the wireless, sad in the news,
of some seventeen killed in the Blitz.
Cigarette number two, sees the fifties arrive,
and the digging for victory turns flowers,
there are children who jostle to play on the lawn,
while their mother cooks tea between showers.
Well the bones of these thoughts have been picked for a night,
as the ghosts of the garden lay low,
will the future remember that I once laid here,
maybe not, just a cigarettes glow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem