Now in the autumn chill
streetlights shine through
fine bare branches
on the square where
a man sprints home
late from the café.
Who's to say? He may
receive forgiveness.
And the traffic's hum
numbs the hearing
and the sprinter's cough
ten metres off
from the café's door
shows a man grown slow
in the autumn cold
of the winter's nearing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Write comment. Such a nice poem, Hugh. Read my poem, Love and Iust. Thanks