Across the quay
sit
discarded old woman.
Saggy sea-beat sacks of flesh,
staring their yesterdays
into the rainbow oil
of a muggy sludge harbour.
A lady in a red coat
offers mystery centres
from a heart-shaped
chocolate box,
then points
to a little white house
with yellow flowers
by the door.
“I lived there once, ”
she says,
“before the tourists came.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem