Þetta ljóð er eftir pabba minn, Bernard Scudder, og er tekið úr ljóðabók hans, Composures frá árinu ‘96. Vil taka fram að hann gaf mér leyfi til að birta eitt ljóð:)


For an instant,
eternity prevailed. The grass
grew to a world, the drop
to an ocean teeming with other drops.

Only in the flicker and jerk
of shadows could we see time
passing other time-
whether through habit or purpose
is for others to judge and pronounce.

A hand raised
to question the hierarchy of the skies
a single, encyclopaedic scream,
sparks of hoofs on rock
that light alleys in distant cities.

A calmness so monklike and legible
volumes thw words countersigned
on the back of the universe.

The night so still that a fart let
putside the King’s Head in Aldershort
can be heard clearly, three hours later
through double-glazing in Morpeth, Northumberland.

For eternity,
an instant prevailed.


Takk, pabbi !
(Pabbi= Bernard Scudder, hann sendir líklega út nýja bók fljótlega, en ég tek fram að hann er enskur; ekki bara skrifa á ensku:)