On waking, head pounded,
lock down continues.
prisoner X looks out his cell,
a caged bird not for singing.
a single thrush doxologised outside my window
being Sunday but there was nothing to say.
no apt metaphor sprang to my pen,
it lacked both lavish laments or jaunty jottings.
green curtains of trees flowed in sultry air
dark barked or green skinned.
gunmetal skies bereft of tears
a roiling dense curtain blotting out the sun
black horizon buzzed thunder
no rain fell, still the air crackled electric.
hushed, waiting for the first fat raindrop
to feed the thirsty, which never came.
and so another day melts into another,
like slow sticky syrup oozing to its end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem