Crimson sails pinned to the sky
fishing smacks becalmed,
the horizon stretches the canvas
to France, as the Cornish jowster
barters her catch, tastes the salt spray,
her apron splashed, her hands red raw,
the sea laps her heels
as the fish slides through her fingers,
swallows me whole.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem