I think I am one of life’s watchers
A sloth, slung between two trees
Looking up at the moon
My two eyes fill with moon
I think the moon fell into me and drowned
I think I could be the moon
I am a human hammock.
Toe-hold on English, finger-grip on Scots
My words drift down like leaves
I am disconnected from the scrabbling
Creatures below, their drive, their naked ambition
Caught in the whirling maelstrom of making their mark
One night I’ll become the moisture
Wetting the clouds of a day
Someone will have to dispose
Of my fur and eyes,
Tipping the moon back out for the grass to drink
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem