The Jazzman of Stonehenge;
kneeling
taps his tiny toffee hammer
on the tarmac path.
Shakes his matchbox at
passing feet.
From his coat pocket takes
a small dull blade
to make quiet scraping noises,
like a field mouse
eats corn.
Suddenly!
smiles,
rocks back & forth,
hums a musical note.
e-flat.
He stops.
Slaps his leg.
Ha Ha.
No applause.
And anyway, beyond the ropes
the Stones have heard it
all before.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem