The sun is hot, and the fields are wide.
I walk, head bowed, towards my village.
The path is hard, the earth is dry.
There is dust on the road, but no horses.
I am thirsty, but the well is far away.
The plains stretch on towards the horizon,
where my way goes.
This is all there is –
and all there is, they say,
fits in a hawk’s eye.

The man I loved did not love me.
And the years pass, with dust on the road
but no horses.
The sky is a scorched blue, sometimes,
sometimes there are stars.
The windmill turns and the grain is ground.
The sails turn when the wind blows.
This is all there is –
and all there is, they say,
fits in a hawk’s eye.

My babe lies sleeping in her cot,
muslin nets ward off summer flies.
I was a babe like my babe once.
A few clouds drift, too few for shade.
For a while, a cuckoo sings in the woods
and then falls quiet.
My babe turns in her sheets and sighs.
This all there is –
and all there is, they say,
fits in a hawk’s eye.

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