Duck at Haldon Ponds
Duck at Haldon Ponds
At evening watches the duck
slow feeding the waterline.
Praises the duck. Such a fine
white miracle breasting the mayfly.
Green of her tail feathers,
space of her neck doubled in water
paddles off with my mind.
Ducks I have known.
Old duck mates of mine
inspecting the meeting of air and liquid.
Make no mistake, duck.
I´d like to eat you well cooked
one bell-battered Sunday in April.
And I´d wear your gorgeous feathers in my hat,
make a soup of the bones
and give your leftovers to the cat.
(1972)
Ken Smith (b. 1938), from: The Poet Reclining - Selected Poems 1962-1980 (Bloodaxe Books)
At evening watches the duck
slow feeding the waterline.
Praises the duck. Such a fine
white miracle breasting the mayfly.
Green of her tail feathers,
space of her neck doubled in water
paddles off with my mind.
Ducks I have known.
Old duck mates of mine
inspecting the meeting of air and liquid.
Make no mistake, duck.
I´d like to eat you well cooked
one bell-battered Sunday in April.
And I´d wear your gorgeous feathers in my hat,
make a soup of the bones
and give your leftovers to the cat.
(1972)
Ken Smith (b. 1938), from: The Poet Reclining - Selected Poems 1962-1980 (Bloodaxe Books)
posted by Chris Titan at 9:56 PM
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