Is it not impossible to
Stalk this town in
Blind-man shades?
Surely, one would tend to think -
The winding, cobbled street, by
Texture and by horse-smell,
Butcher’s corner, stale blood
Trail, a whiff of evening ale
The silver-bearded violinist,
Hat displayed - he’s twenty quid a
Richer man,
Plus my soul in change -
Paid, and with a pause in
Sorrowful refrain
He decrees, “You are the night”
And I’ve become the night!
Dog piss, street lamp accolade
Stick-in-hand, I
Navigate the gutter trash,
The moistened promenade
By touch
By touch alone
Highly evocative of some small towns in the north, lovely work
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great poem...i felt like putting a lock on my door, then looking out my window. good job.