POND AT DUNHAM MASSEY.
Just inside the gate there is a pond,
as round as a moon and clear as a mirror.
In it the sky can be seen laughing
at itself, the clouds, frisky with delight,
are kicking their heels high.
Any bird that lights on it becomes
at once a double of itself.
Narcissus could have languished here,
entranced. Sometimes I too
feel the urge to peek - just peek:
I would not let myself be too absorbed,
or so I think.
HEAVY WITH SUMMER
Heavy with summer the trees nod in the heat;
the river struggles to loop along its bed.
The hot sun's opening the flowers too wide:
fuchsias grow too full and drop their purple bells
across the paving slabs like dabs of blood.
You speak of walking through the woods -
an easy mile or so, you say, encouraging me.
But no, I only want to lean my back against this wall;
my summers counted now, my back against the wall.
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