Somewhere on a rock that hurtles through space
at a speed incomprehensible to him,
a man is standing in a field of potatoes
scanning the crop for spots on leaves.
He sees the things that matter:
the weeds between the rows,
the good growth and the yellowing,
the low grey clouds with their promise of rain.
Kicking the stones, he curses his aching back
and blows on his hands: do you call this summer?
And he watches the kestrel standing high against the wind
at the field’s edge;
and the kestrel’s eyes have not missed
the vole on the headland below
as it scurries for cover in the nettles and docks.
Meanwhile, the rock continues to race around its star,
spinning on an axis of iron as it goes.
We cannot tell its motion, only in the things that matter:
hours and days, the turning seasons, changing leaves,
greetings and farewells
and the tumbling circles of the ageing years.
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