A herbarium in the sun,
a summer, at the bottom of the garden
and my grandma among the potatoes,
carrots and parsnips,
how old are you, grandma,
you skin is wrinkled,
not smooth and pliant like the potatoes in the soil,
or the sound of the potatoes
when you throw them into the bucket
and scrub them clean with a broom in the yard,
the water runs out of the bucket into the gravel,
down between the yellow and white stones
which I put in my mouth,
cool stones against the inside of my teeth,
I know their shape and taste,
and the potatoes in the big aluminium saucepan
with dill and salt and butter,
and we come in hot and out of breath,
we sit down on the bench,
we were busy doing something,
something we didn't know what it was,
something that took us places
that could not be seen in advance,
something that struck us with enormous force,
an obvious secret that annihilated us
because our minds wandered for a moment,
your skin is yellow and waxy, grandma,
they're singing for you and closing the lid
with small silver-plated screws,
you're to go down into the soil
down to the potatoes.

Translation: John Irons