More of much the same

Here's another poem, from this recently acquired 1986 Frank Redpath collection:


Looking South-West

Above and to the south-west, what passes
For a forest: five hundred yards of oak
And beech, well coppiced.

Even that much would seem out of scale but
For the way the evening sun, behind it,
Makes it soft fringe stiff

And black and definite. A hard edge to
What would be the endless beckoning on a plain,
It's a great comfort.

Not that comfort is hard to come by, in
These fields; walkers for days, they say, would find
More of much the same.

Not too neat, adapted, still adaptable,
What if they lie? 'Landscape?' they say, 'Landscape?
Oh, that
Must be shrunk to fit.'

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Frank Redpath (1927 - 1990)

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