On the hill, conkers had split
Small, failed Caesarians
Rags of mist hung on the trees like dishcloths
Dried leaves were pressed on the pavement
Like cataracts, imprinted on sheets of frost
A plane crossed the wintry sun
Like an insect crossing an eyeball
In the invalid’s house
A goldfish circled a bowl of its own pee
The ambulance arrived like a large white whale
Parked in a paddle pool
Everyone over 60 was on death watch
Eyes steeled to the windows
Mrs Renton in nightie and slippers
Was worried a funeral
Would mean a change of neighbours
Death, meanwhile, went quietly on with his weeding
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A sexy visual on words! The way you penned each expression, your choice in words. I could hear a voice while reading. Nicely done Sheena!