still life - ted hughes lyrics
outcrop stone is miserly
with the wind. h**rding its nothings
letting wind run through its fingers
it pretends to be dead of lack
even its grimace is empty
warted with quartz pebbles from the sea’s womb
it thinks it pays no rent
expansive in the sun’s summerly reckoning
under rain, it gleams exultation blackly
as if receiving interest
similarly, it bears the snow well
wakeful and missing little and landmarking
the fly*like dance of the planets
the landscape moving in sleep
it expеcts to be in at the finish
being ignorant of this othеr, this harebell
that trembles, as under threats of death
in the summer turf’s heat*rise
and in which — filling veins
any known name of blue would bruise
out of existence — sleeps, recovering
the maker of the sea
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