It was well enough done in Cobbledock Lane:
Breathing the grey waked morning.
And the barrels, kicked from the dray
spoke rebellion:
Passing shop windows dressed with baking ladies,
grown old in smiling.
The untiring bay sang its psalm
Through the gusted rigging.
And Spray-salted light
Marked time with the wefting hurry-scurry trains
Sneaking by.
This never-mind day,
Caught in the mirrored canvas,
Ran out to the salt-marsh,
Where the black horse statues stood
Upon the prize of days now past
Amid the unwrapped drizzle...
In all not much
but well enough done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is beyond just well enough done. Thanks for the good read.