MAGGIE SAWKINS

Cuckoo
 

It’s one o’clock
and I slip in beside him

smelling of honeysuckle
and dusted in pollen,

I know he’s awake

he’s picking pieces of bracken
out of my hair.

I long to tell him about the pansies
and their Pekinese faces

all about the mandrakes
and the Queen Anne’s Lace,

but he doesn’t speak –
he’s pretending he doesn’t care.

All the same – I think he knows

I’ve been out haunting
those wooded bedlams again.

Elena Dumitrascu

Maggie Sawkins
 

Cucul

E ora unu
si ma furisez langa el,

mirosind caprifoul,
acoperita de praf de polen.

Stiu ca e treaz.
Aduna bucatele de feriga din parul meu.

Tanjesc sa-i spun despre panselutele
cu fete de pekinezi , despre matraguna
si despre floarea de morcov salbatic,
dar el nu vorbeste –
se preface ca nu-i pasa.

Mi-e totuna – Cred ca stie
ca iar am bantuit acel balamuc al codrilor.