Blodyn

Sharon’s a sad bag. Spiky, screwed up,
folded in on herself
in a tough brown shell
like the bark
on autumn’s last conker.

Some say she has a pretty smile
though it’s rare – tell the truth, it’s prettier
for being scarce like rain in a desert
but nobody’s seen
her petals unfold
for quite a while.

But give her a drop to drink
when the weather’s right, in the monsoon season –
tears, or gin, or tempest water –
she explodes
a cupful of dew and roses,
turns her plump, smooth face to the rain
and drinks, fearless, from the eye of the storm.

Sharon er en strid sæk. Prikken og vrang,
rullet sammen om sig selv
i en hård brun skal
som barken
på efterårets sidste kastanje.

Nogle siger hendes smil er kønt
skønt sjældent – det er sandt, det er kønnere
fordi det er som regn i ørkenen
men det er også sandt
at ingen har set hende blomstre
i et års tid eller to.

Men giv hende en dråbe
når vejret er rigtigt, i regntiden –
tårer eller gin eller tordenvand –
og hun eksploderer
et bæger af dug og roser,
vender sit fulde ansigt mod skybruddet
og suger uforsagt af stormens øje.

Shö’s a grötti-barrel, Sharon. Jaggy an trumsket
fowlded in apön hersel
in a tyoch broon shall
or da husk
o hairst’s hidmist puckle.

Some say her smile is boannie
though hit’s rare – truth ta tell, hit’s boannier
for bein lik desert drush
but naebody’s seen her grace
for a twalmont or mair.

But weet her trapple
on da richt day, in a doontöm –
tears, or gin, or tömald watter –
an shö oppens
a cupfoo o dewy rose,
turns her smooth face tae da wadder
an sooks fae da nooky o da gale.