I woke to the sound
of birdsong and cows
mooing from the farm.
I lay in bed thinking
of Benedict. I had
never thought about
a boy before; never
had this feeling inside,
never had my mind
so muddled up
like a puddle in a
storm. Downstairs
mother prepared
breakfast. Father
was in his study
preparing his long
sermon for Sunday.
I used to be up and
dressed, out in the
early morning sun,
watching butterflies
in flight. But I lay
in bed as if it was
night, staring at
the wooden cross
on the white wall.
I wanted to get up,
but I felt as if I'd
not slept at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem