I
Through a field of real buttercups
An imaginary child runs; the time is always past;
The child is myself; someone imagined me
In the middle distance, among brilliant flowers.
II
What shall I see in the mirror, mother,
When I am old?
A round rough hill without a track,
Chicory, columbine, fleabane, mullein stalk,
Flick of a grouse in the tangled brush,
Two black steers come to lick salt.
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