At one moment you are
back at translating Edward Thomas,
struggling with his frost-cold misery,
the next you are drawn
to counting butterflies
as an image rises in your mind,
driven by some impulse
beyond the shadow of an elm in moonlight,
your mind perhaps
seeking warmth among his visions
of solitary frigidity,
and his night gives way
to my bright summer day
as I count to ten
and more.
04.06.2025
Verse Poetry Poems Poem #Verse #Poetry #Poems #Poem
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