The poet, in his garden, holds his pen
Like a dart between two fingers and a thumb;
The target is unfortunately blurred;
He does not see as clearly as when young,
Or, rather, doubt and nervousness obtrude:
He dare not risk the unreflecting fling.

How to convey the taste and texture of
This sun-drunk afternoon? How can he sieve
The essence of these greens, the grass, the trees,
The mating scents, the way the clouds behave,
And shape it to a pattern which might please
The glinting intellect and hungry Five?

And how include the aeroplane which slides
No larger than a pearl across the skies,
Its roar wrapped up in distance which conceals
A figure masked and helmeted whose strong
Finger stabs the button that resolves
The poet's problem in a flash, and bang.