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Poem on Being
FOUR POEMS
POEM ON BEING
Looking out of the storehouse window
At the gradient through the firs
At the house built of river stones
At the tiled hill on my ordinance map
Hearing the noise of three plain pullets
Upon a rainwashed cart
Someone emptying a bucket by the tap
And a wheelbarrow creaking
A wasp glued on the pane, that barrier.
Gripping a boyish pen, the buzz in my head
Inside harness hanging over milk churns
Our first pony at the station driveway
Feeling good and cheerful with nothing much to say.