How fast the grey speeds lonely on, above the dying day,
it soaks to nowhere, chilling all, with fleeting cloud display,
it’s such a pretty circus, looking inside from without,
perhaps I’ll stop and wish awhile, and stamp my feet of doubt.
So briefly fly those flights of men, you’re up and then you’re down,
a record jaunt, not many yards, just hover off the ground,
that dream you had so many times, looked down upon yourself,
foretelling what, we’ll never know, just leave it on the shelf.
Manoeuvre in each fragile sun and stay beneath its crown,
I fly by night to morning’s curve, not daring to touch down,
do scribbled notes on where I’d been, but write them in the air,
recalling daydreams from the heart, without some REM despair.
I hadn’t walked that far along my Chesil monotone,
and can’t remember colour schemes surrounding every stone,
I hunt not for the raging fire, but they who hold the match,
for gossip runs more people flat, than many car’s despatch.
In early dawn the light seeps in and wakens, soft and warm,
far from the sheets of midnight’s plane, we shift back into form,
and stirring, reckon now’s the day when life unfolds its scenes,
or else let pass another day, and back to bed for dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem