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In The Beech
par
Seamus Heaney
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On one side under me, the concrete road. On the other, the bullocks’ covert, the breath and plaster of a drinking place where the school-leaver found peace to weigh his chances with the pale thug in his fork. And the tree itself an old one and a new one, as much a column as a bole. The very ivy puzzled its milk-tooth frills and tapers over the grain: was it bark or masonry? I watched the red brick chimney rear its stamen course by course, and the steeplejacks up there at their antics like flies against the mountain. I felt the tanks’ advance beginning at the cynosure of the growth rings, then winced at their imperium refreshed in each powdered bolt-mark on the concrete. And the pilot with his goggles back came in so low I could see the c*ckpit rivets. My hidebound boundary tree. My tree of knowledge. My thick-tapped, soft-fledged, airy listening post.
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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