28 SEPTEMBER 1985, Page 28

Magpike

Like plump, unfinished swans clouds drift Headless just beneath the gloss Of pond where willow-branches shift Very gently, under glass.

Deeper, on pond-bed, you see The little jungles, tracks and plains, Mysterious geography.

Above, a comcrake's curse complains.

This sudden squawking makes you lift Your eyes from water to the sky But there you see the graceful, swift Glide of magpie skimming by.

Then next, a quick disturbance in Those mirror depths makes you return Your gaze below where flash of fin Or is it wing? — through shell-burst churn Of cloudy mud shows piebald hint Of what is either fish or bird Or both — an image gaffed by print, Now real as any other word.

Vernon Scannell