Sunday, May 20, 2012

July Evening by Norman Mac Caig

A bird's voice chinks and tinkles
Alone in the gaunt reedbed-
            Tiny silversmith
Working late in the evening.

I sit and listen. The rooftop
With a quill of smoke stuck in it
            Wavers against the sky
In the dreamy heat of summer.

Flowers' closing time: bee lurches
Across the hayfield, singing
            And feeling its drunken way
Round the air's invisible corners.

And grass is grace. And charlock
Is gold of its own bounty.
            The broken chair by the wall
is one with immortal landscapes.

Something has been completed
That everything is part of,
            Something that will go on
Being completed forever.

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