In the end I made a detour
to the news of the genocide,
almost got lost there,
spreading an hour or two
what everyone should know,
then made my way
to Edward Thomas as I intended,
but it was a different poem
than the ones I had in mind,
one that I couldn't pass,
and after that polished one
old translation by Augusta Webster,
translated two by Charles Simic
from London Book of Reviews in 2017,
and now it's half past eleven
and the pastel colours have faded,
dark silhouettes of trees
stand against gray-blue sky
and I think of the calendar
I promised to my muse
and will try to deliver this sweltering night,
after I have made another pot of coffee
to get through those two poems
by Edward Thomas
that have waited me eleven decades.
14.07.2025
#Verse #Poem #Poems #Poetry
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