1
C’est notre saison de mourir:
elle est aux gorge des arbres,
Un tambourinage parmi des arbres sombres.
2
Ses mains magnifient la cote lumineuse:
Elles touchent
Le crane de l’arbre
3
Et nous chuchutons encore
Des amours remarquables,
Une glace enorme dansant sur nos doights
– ‘For President Johnson On The Shores Of America’.
Bill Manhire b.1946.From ‘Bill Manhire. Collected Poems’, p.36.
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