Your willy-willy of words
spiral through, leaving a
flavour and scent of how
things were, or ought to be.
In my dreaming time
I too search for words
to describe, to cajole?
But unlike you, dear Les,
it isn't easy for me.
My childhood nightmare
'I cannot read the word'
still haunts.
But I love our language
so I must write,
and reading yours
determines mine.
(For Les Murray)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem