Rubbed out
I stopped at a low stonewall
on my slow progress
saw before me a landscape painting,
ten sheep and twelve lambs.
I thought who that painter might be,
a sudden blur in the air,
when the picture cleared there
was a mare an her foal
five sheep had disappeared;
the painting looked better,
but I didn't linger,
I wouldn't like the artist to
think I was a part of his picture
wanting to erase me
for the sake of the prettiness.
of the landscape
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem