IN this somewhat oblique love poem, Norman MacCaig’s voice is, as ever, unmistakable and original. The piece, dated 1969, comes from the admirable posthumous collection of MacCaig’s work, edited by his son Ewen and published by Polygon (hardback, 2005, £25).

BOOKWORM

I open the second volume

of a rose

and find it says, word for word,

the same as the first one.

The waves of the sea

annoy me, they bore me;

why aren’t they divided

in paragraphs?

I look at the night

and make nothing of it –

those black pages

with no print.

But I love the gothic script

of pinetrees and

on the pond the light’s

fancy italics.

And the cherry tree’s petals –

they make

a sweet lyric, I appreciate

their dying fall.

But it’s strange, girl, how I come back

from the library of everything

to stare and stare at

the closed book of you.

When will you open to me

and show me the meaning of all

the hard words

in the lexicon of love?