in the tunnel there are blue grapes,
orange and red nasturtiums;
joan draws the mullein’s
pale green fruits, felt leaves,
lemon-y flowers,
while lizabeth paints
the canvas sunshine-yellow,
i grate beetroots
and i finely slice
red onions, mix quinoa,
chop lime-pickle, pour the oil and serve;
all day, a river of light ripples
the table’s surface
through two vine-leaved windows;
under the bay,
the last sweet-peas’ perfume
floats; the willow
warbler sings from this lime tree -
and a snail’s
munched progressed holes
in the plan thumb-tacked to a wall
so even the past
is still changing...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem