Ice
cube, sliding
That day began with, dear god!
Shocking gasp and green
plunge in the pool eighteen degrees and dropping
four lengths in, stately, become miraculously warm
and you and I in fluent chat
plus birds, a buzzard to your left?
Doves dainty dipping, pink feet
curled on the edge
then to market, landscape definitely crisping at the
edges,
autumnal, though you talked of rust in the chestnuts
but also feathery fields, asparagus, waving
and one or two hectares of sunflowers,still zinging in full song.
Next to the lake, a picnic in the shade
and afterwards those scarlet dragonflies
with various Clouded
Yellows on the flit and flutter.
At home another thirty lengths, soothing dip
before our rendezvous with a poet, quiet Irish tones
in the still white
clean white room
strange images, a black moon
and Robert Frost he gave me,
that ice cube, sliding on its own melt
who knew the genesis, the where from? Wither?
Watch in wonder
see the poem formed.
10th September, 2012, Hounoux, for Clare
(The poet was Matthew Sweeney. He told me that Robert Frost said a poem is a block of ice sliding on its own melt. Subsequently I read that RF also said ' Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words' )
(The poet was Matthew Sweeney. He told me that Robert Frost said a poem is a block of ice sliding on its own melt. Subsequently I read that RF also said ' Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words' )
