a tall blonde, white plaited with salt
all elbows and knees, a new menhir
on a tided stage of
tidewash and wind, crouched under
a sky of ovens and red brick,
serious and wide-eyed
before a sandring that loses
its smile as the sun drowns;
the sky turns to black.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem