The farm has changed, face-lifted
since we put away the lamps
or hung them up with lanterns, as antiques.
The house is new-veined, lush.
Getting the current switched through — such
fever, a district-do to celebrate:
“We’ll be like the townsfolk now,” we sang.
My mother saw the world transformed
by a washing-machine and fridge.
My father, caught by progress in a skein
that swept about his ears,
tracked voyages round the farm
reassured by the sameness of the stars
and lanterns lighting his mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem