Transpoesie - Poems

The Dancers

On a bus somewhere, or a train, you come towards me

And the second-generation children singing pop songs

Whose fortunes of language they cannot cherish yet.

And we’ll stand there in the hall with your suitcases

Listening to whatever rendition, whatever song

And you’ll say what a thing to share this flake of time

In their company, what a thing wild lavender

Can still flourish in the grounds of the derelict church.