The birds in Nunhead Cemetery begin
Before I've flicked a switch, turned on the gas.
There must be some advantage to the light
I tell myself, viewing my slackened chin
Mirrored in the rain-dark window glass,
While from the graveyard's trees, the birds begin.
An image from a dream survives the night,
Some dreck my head refuses to encompass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem