Sun beat black holes in the pavement.
Limbs entwined, a vine wrapped around a bough?
Black tarmac plain traversed, beneath a canopy of a fragile leaves,
an empty table beckons
Filtered light strikes warped and weathered timber,
horizontal interludes, ensnare leaves and stale chips,
wine glasses teeter, then, ring with the sibilant
sound of a far away call to prayer.
Wrought iron chairs: strange bedfellows: comfortable,
disrespectful of age or position surround aged staves.
Idiomatic chatter narrates the passing of a week
An Indolent breeze pulls at flaccid bunting, time
metronomes a larghissimo beat.
The sun call's time!
Our canopy of leaves offers no further service, as
day defends its dying light,
Night emerges from the throes of a dying sun.
Awaiting the stroke of eight, amid blue flashing light
Telephonic sound and fleeing mind, the day caste to
Indelible memory or desolate wit
Tomorrow's covenant extinguished!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem