I remember the sun;

the sun was important,

although all the art was inside

and in perfect pride of place,

skirting the walls

and planted in rows.

My feet young, but the air old,

and moss overgrown on

the war memorial outside.

True, you need light for shade,

a chiaroscuro, and

a half-full glass raised.

The place is almost silent

with must, damp, old coins...

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I worked all through the Winter,

on my Swan, then it got dashed in water,

a cruel joke from some playmate or other,

sadly it didn't float, but neither even would 

my flimsy boat (one would imagine).

Trouble was the books were too old,

too fusty, specialised;

I grabbed them from the library eager

only to arrive back home and within five minutes

had lost patience...

con...

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This officious darling, too old
for me, with steel-eyed glances;
offers me a hand and
a Fabergé egg.

The cold lights of the Malverns
in winter are anthills.
In my heart, I decline, and go
to prowl before the world's river.

Scooping up vanity in my arms
I deposit the screaming bundle
on steaming bank, smooth leaf
and unpick iron links.

Soon his money's out
of the question and I r...

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The arch-light at the end of the view

from my door is

weather-bitten, with mossed steps,

beneath the thumbprint of moon

(the stone, in the fruit

of the afternoon).

Sideways I glance,

over the hedge;

there, spring has hit,

and apple-tree, honeysuckle

and lacquered gate,

preen idly.

I remembered the last time,

your hands closing both of mine,

as we stre...

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Beside the water,

torch-lit in wide places,

the muddy track fades

and ash and oak are ragged

paper props,

before, beside, behind.

The thaw bleeds out

over marsh and moor,

swept away back east

with lines of fields

pockmarked

and played out.

My own earth is in the box

where

the heart smokes

and is painted on the floor,

where dogs rush to me a...

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A running tap in a cluttered room,

the water through dust-light.

Someone stares from a close distance,

unmoving. The sound fills the space.

A body lies outside, on the paving,

curled sideways, fully clothed.

One fist open, the other

hidden. Dawn breaks slow above.

Two bright young things, in hats,

scarves and gloves, rush breathless

to the window of a jewell...

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Getting famous

with wilderness;

judgement's feather-light

body-blows, cascade

through vertigo.

Too old to start

afresh, AGAIN;

swimming in the scorched

starlight, of youth, eyes

unblemished, bright.

This is all fair,

where would it be

otherwise? How could

the cymbals clang warped

for us, weak heroes?

Or soften, as fruit

rich, nourishin...

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