It was outside Bruge
in that first base camp
and Dalya said about the tents
not arriving and having to sleep
nine of us
in that cramped caravan
and no privacy.
We were in the bar
waiting for the mini-bus
driver and guide
to come and arrange
our outward bound trip
through Belgium.
She swore at him when he came
and her Glasgow accent
tore into him
but he took it in good part
and said the tents
had arrived and were
loaded on top
of the mini-bus
ready to go.
I liked her pluck
and her neat body
but didn't tell her so.
We finished our booze
and smokes and climbed
aboard the mini-bus
all nine of us.
She was next to me and Bill
and we set off on the road
with us and the load.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem