The sun comes like a head
through last night's turtleneck.
A pigeon in the yard turns tail
and offers me a card. Any card.
From pillar to post, a pantomime
of damp, forgotten washing
on the washing line.
So, in the breeze:
the olé of a crimson towel.
the cancan of a ra ra skirt,
the monkey business of a shirt
pegged only by its sleeve,
the cheerio
of a handkerchief.
I drop the blind
but not before a company
of half a dozen hens
struts through the gate,
looks round the courtyard
for a contact lens.
Quite humorous and witty, looking around the courtyard ' for a contact lens'.
This simply wonderful. The imagery and evocation of the momentary mental maziness that possess us as we detach from the logical day and really open our eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a trash poem