Near the scrapyard
Round the corner
From the ocean
Where the stock
Pile of battered
And torn cars
Makes a strange
Substitute for
The hills
Across the fields
Covered with
Long, uncut grass
While in the
Background
You can see the
Deserted scout-hut
On the tip
Of the coastline
Round the bend
From the window
That leads
To the Buddhist temple
Hidden round the
Side of the
Deserted paint factory
Next to the
School with the
Cracked hockey fields
Which lead
To the grass verges
Where you can
See horses run
Freely on summer days
But my focus
Lies across
The thread of stuttering
Street lamps across
The factory tram
Behind which
The crescent moon
Shines like a
Smiling parent
My focus lies
Across black forests
And concrete gardens
And down back lanes
Which most people
Have forgotten about,
Right onto the tip
Of the coastline,
But never into the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem