march 1981  
 
having this,  
no fantastic hate  
can rob you;  
not devils,   
not warriors,  
not demons;  
  
nor even angels,  
spying from their steep slopes,  
  
nothing, truly nothing   
can rob you –   
  
nor even this town, 
that has a history 
of theft and mutilation:

the churches empty,  
the homes neglected  
the parks choaked with weeds.  

you do not need to stay.

you do not need to pay.

april 1981

i’ve not words
enough to say - 

i saw you walking
on the road today,

nor eyes 
prepared to follow:

folly ,

prey.

may i 1981

eclipsing streets,
a steady shore,
an ordered crash
of waves;

through sunlight, 
shafts,
marbled clouds

a far, far out horizon,

unreachable;
unbreachable.

may ii 1981

i am
in envy of love;

i am in envy
of these two figures 

strong as the sun.

i am in envy.

june 1981

how far do seas stretch?

here, my love;
beach, 
sand, 
dunes,

and rocks, 
rising, 

cliffs, rising:

we sit, hidden
in stumpy
heat-drenched grass;

a high hollow,
spread with towels, 
a picnic, cigarettes:

and two tight bodies
curled like babes
observing 

visions.

july 1981

on this shore – 

on every shore

the sea rolls, 
spreads,
swobs
expands
explains

but we –
you and i –

we are fastened like limpets.

we cannot  leave.

september i 1981

the waves
of last night’s storm
linger, loiter
insist
endure: 

they stir still;
they stir now,

white, wild, whipping

the heavy sea is not becalmed;

it slaps on jetties,
smashes the sea walls,
breaks up the boats;

and we must shelter.

september ii,1981

i have come
to meet myself again –
to catch up.
find fault,
find favour.

it is the same homing, bleak sea,
the same empty horizon
blotted out by mist.

my heart gives into it;
beats
like a forbearing tide.

october 1981

behind me 
a television tower
feeds the air,

feeds a hundred thousand
unseen homes;

feeds them all, 
gannets
razorbills, 
gulls greedy as Ahab

with a rattle of stodgy voices
i cannot hear,

mayday signals
for the dying day

for the yearning empty night.

november i, 1981

november.

the pebbles are smooth,
grey, oval, wet;

they slide,
roll,
rattle;

children gather driftwood;

build bonfires.

the inlet – 
south beach - 
lies under a muscle of white cloud;

wheeling waves
whiten,
spread
a pale disappearing line;

we breathe air
no city has maintained;

i sit on a washed up
tree trunk
greatest of all.

november ii 1981

just above the line 
thrown
by the strongest wave;

just at that point
where the sand shelves,

where it is wet, softer, darker

just at that point – 
that is where the people group 

where the people watch, 
where they walk
throw stones;

the pensioner too,
in his fawn coat,

we are just at that point – 

each day,
same time, same place
beside the shifting sea.

december 1981 

hallo there.
hey!
hallo!

i see my face
under the street light;

i see that when this passion
has gone
the shop’s glass window will remain
reflecting it all back;
everything bloody thing
but hazy, sticky
with salt,

it is my father confessor
my witness to others 
who walk,
like i
catching their faces,
in this unkind abrupt way
long before they are ready 
to own up;
 
catching their features too soon
in the vast unending night.

february  1982 

lean mountains
rise seaward,
rock on rock;

thin fields stretch,
taut as canvass

the first light
gilds the couch grass
across Swyddffynnon,
fills the hollows
from Pontrhydfendigaid
to Ystrad Meurig

runs gold
over Cambria.

march i  1982 

unspeaking, 
we’ve watched the day
wake and slide 
unfelt;

old room in an empty house.

our bodies lie still,
unspent;

under the huge grey sky
there is no trade.

march ii 1982 

briefly
i remember lying in your lap,

my stock against the night
electrically charged,
incriminated;

my fingers familiar

each contour known
as my own,
the warmth and texture
of your feckless flesh.

april  1982

her eyes coil
around a world
i cannot see;

in her head
are the smiles of friends,

and elders,
smiling sadly,

as they will smile
when she is dead.

may  i1982

living by the sea
we have missed the first
graffiti of spring,
the scrawl of buds on bush

the harsh soft hasty green

the pebble beach is our park, 
cold and hard
untranslated, unpreserved,
seen in flashes
moment by moment
without memory.
childless,
parentless.

may ii 1982

but for this
there is no other world;

this is the magic of your face,
the fascination,
the hidden sea - 

waves rearrange the light;

currents coil beneath
like massive ropes
encrusted with barnacles
wrenching the water

dragging it this way
and that
dragging it into 
a warren of rolling whitecaps.

this is the only place for love;

this time my heart 
will take its ancient path
unseen.

may iii 1982

somewhere, 
somehow, 
something 
will end;

just not be there; 

we’ll wonder why we ever looked;

adjoin, 
ajar,
elude, 

escape – 

the door will never
close again.

will never.

may iv 1982

remember that old image of summer;

the blooming trees,
heavy with green;

the flower crowd and scent – 

someone sitting
near the house; 

someone playing
the music of old scores on the piano?

it never was.  

get up and go; 
the door is open.

may v  1982

i cannot see it in your eyes, 
the lover, mistress, master - 

it is only the ocean i see –

the eternal cross of light
dimming in the depths
late as the latest 
night-known dreams
the trances and delusions – 
the truth.

june i 1982

this cold magic has – 
as possession – 

every length of time,

has the fascination too,

and the light it steals:

oh, how it steals the light –

dragging it beneath the waves
with such dark grace
only a fool would not follow.

june ii 1982

stay in.

we are cannibals
together;

adequate, sufficient.

all we need
is all we are.

june iii 1982

she dreams with her eyes;
shapes of ships 
and long dark seas;

a diviner,
a first time diver,
going places -

such places as you never saw

and being all he is,
he is all hers

and she dreams on.

june iv 1982

apart from casual pain
he will never walk disarmed,
as if always
into ...