Saturday, 16 July 2011

The Farm

A white road leads into the farm;
becomes a cratered barnyard
where an old German shepherd
busts the tautness of a rusty iron chain,
thrashing its intentions a body-length away.

The rose moon rises. As if in downpour,
its light streaks the lemon-scented leaves
of a sprawling eucalyptus; plays
upon the texture of the bark,
the resinous knots and boles,
like sleight of hand on a piccolo’s fingerings.

Everything—even an ocellated lizard
basking beside the coop—
moves at snail’s gallop:
gradually up and over
the choppy furrows of the new-hoed earth.



after Joan Miro, 1921-1922

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