Summer Farm by Norman MacCaig

Straws like tame lightnings lie about the grass

And hang zigzag on hedges. Green as glass

The water in the horse-trough shines.

Nine ducks go wobbling by in two straight lines.

A hen stares at nothing with one eye,

then picks it up. Out of an empty sky

A swallow falls and, flickering through

The barn, dives up again into the dizzy blue.

I lie, not thinking, into the cool, soft grass,

Afraid of where a thought might take me -as

This grasshopper with plated face

Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.

Self under self, a pile of selves I stand

Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand

Lift the farm like a lid and see

Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.


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