It’s that time, mid-autumn: an oil-base blue sky —
pebbles, rocks, a foothold for seagulls.
Clouds buckle, scoop grey on grey, mirror
the colours of the stones. Now, rose-tinged
the clouds fire up — a final show
before darkening. The boat shed stirs,
tugs on its moorings, flags down the breeze
as rows of street-lights flick on.
People shuffle by, shaped by anoraks, adrift
from the pack. They peer through the windows
of the lifeguards’ shop, lined into
the oldest dream, of being saved
no matter what sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem