THE PINK GLEN
A translation of the previous poem. Have you heard of the pink glen with clematises running like oblivious children like coloured balls bouncing from stone to stone all the way down to the sea? You’ve taken my hand and I spring forward and I leap o’er the leaves, o’er the flowers, brushing nimbly past the petals while my dress swells with the breeze. We travel, airborne, down to the shore and sit on the waves where the sunset weaves pink clematises on the rounded ripples of the sea. mp