A northern rain, the grey
certainty of it - the same
abluting evening for a clear night,
for wide pavements and
bus windows, each steamy pane
puffing its cheek against the clenched air,
and again the falling waters
of an hour that glistens in remains,
and a sky that weeps
to wash me clean.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem