The Country Child.
The country child
runs in and out of rain
showers
like rooms;
sees the snake-patterns in
trains,
the sun's sword-play in
the hedges
and the confetti in
falling elder blossoms;
knows the humming in the
telegraph poles
as the hedgerow's voice
when tar bubbles are ripe
for bursting;
watches bees emerge from
the caverns
at the centres of
buttercups,
feels no end to a daisy
chain,
feels no end to an
afternoon;
walks on ice though it
creaks;
sees fish among ripples
and names them;
is conversant with berries
and hides behind thorns;
slips down leaves, behind
stones;
fills his hands with the
stream
and his hair with the
smell of hay;
recognizes the chalkiness
of the weathered bones of
sheep,
the humour in a rusted
fence,
the feel of the white
beards that hang there.
The country child
sees a mountain range
where blue clouds
are heaped above the
horizon,
sees a garden of diamonds
through a hole scraped
in the frost patterns of
his bedroom window
and sees yet another world
when tints of cerise and
ochre
streak the evening sky.
He knows no end, at night
he sneaks glimpses of
Heaven
through the moth-eaten carpet of the sky.
through the moth-eaten carpet of the sky.
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