Gedicht
John Burnside
OVER KELLIE
OVER KELLIE
OVER KELLIE
If summer is conversation,then winter is thought;
or so it seems tonight: rain in the trees
and, halfway between our house
and the neighbour’s farm,
a lost ewe in the fence-wire
waits for dawn;
as I am waiting now,
for something new:
a way of thinking come in from the fields;
a music, spare and empty as a psalm,
or like a question no one thinks to ask
until the wind remembers on his skin,
a sky beneath the sky, the dreaming grass,
acres of homeland, measured out in stars.
© 2006, John Burnside
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OVER KELLIE
If summer is conversation,then winter is thought;
or so it seems tonight: rain in the trees
and, halfway between our house
and the neighbour’s farm,
a lost ewe in the fence-wire
waits for dawn;
as I am waiting now,
for something new:
a way of thinking come in from the fields;
a music, spare and empty as a psalm,
or like a question no one thinks to ask
until the wind remembers on his skin,
a sky beneath the sky, the dreaming grass,
acres of homeland, measured out in stars.
OVER KELLIE
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