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- John Kinsella
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- The Magnifying Glass
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- Straining to see the thrips
- through under-strength glasses
- and tracing the movements of a cutworm
- through a run of severed seedlings,
- the Spring garden absorbs me
- in these sub-texts to its Georgic order.
- A cut knee which without a shot
- might bring a fatal bout of tetanus
- is comfortably ignored, as are vapour trails
- criss-crossing overhead against the sky
- stretched tautly against ill-will.
- It’s as if nothing exists
- beyond the garden. But within
- the influence and vulnerability
- of this world a wisp of smoke
- rising over the hedge draws me
- looking for an answer. Quietly I
- lean over as if the delicacy
- of the smoke and the exaggerated
- silence would have me do so,
- to find a small boy and girl
- burning leaves with a magnifying
- glass. "Watch the ant", the girl
- whispers as the beam tracks
- its hour glass across the leaves
- towards a point I cannot see.
- She grips his shoulder
- but says nothing, concentrating
- all the harder. A stray cloud
- passes over and they start.
- "See how big it looks,"
- she says as I lean a little
- too close to the hedge
- which rustles with the contact.
- Without looking up they dash
- towards the house, the smell
- of burnt foliage mingling
- with the bouquet of the garden.
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