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.