Day Two Hundred and Ninety Four: Summer Is But a Memory…

Summer may very well be long gone but it doesn’t need to be summer to enjoy this poem. Courtesy of the brilliant Norman MacCaig who had a way with words unlike anyone else. It buzzes in such a brilliant way. Copyright etc belong to the author.

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, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me –
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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