The smell of damp awning
and the dew, beautifully sweet
then the Sunday oven-sun
Later; bread toasted at supper
We sipped wine that night in
Wexford from plastic goblets
under high canvas.
And in the belly of the night,
in flaming-hot sleeping bag,
I awoke to grandmother standing;
her long grey hair, in heaven I believe,
warning me.
Five years, before grandmother standing;
the cross, with a skin-and-blood-man,
appeared on the wall.
Now; I have need of the council
with speed bumps, barriers
and neon signs to warn of locusts
and canker from new wine in old skin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great write . An elegant poetic touch of personal experiences