Ley lines  

What remains  

are the maps,  

laying, like ley lines,  

the journeys of men   

who have died,  

or simply disappeared;  

the journals   

others have remembered,  

building the picture  

from a few surviving fragments  

quoted in the books  

of those who followed.  

Charts swallow charts,

pass on the same fantastic contours -

corkscrewing coastlines,

pulling out modest deltas

into uncharted seas,

and, faithfully,

taking each

a little further

as if a returning sailor

whispered on the home dock

that the journey was further

than the old maps had implied.

Sometimes,

a new hand intervenes,

adding an island,

peppering, with cities, the board alluvial plains

of a dreaming land;

gouging out a fierce, flamboyant river;

but even the navigators

do not know

which of the strange sea beasts

preying on the edges of each terrain

are the ones to fear;

or which rivers will take us inland,

before vanishing

like streams on chalk

beneath the walls of the real city,

the one that is mentioned

in the first accounts?

City Without Seasons

Because the city has no seasons;

because the house beneath the downs was sold

it is that summer that holds,

its days turning at the end of unfamiliar roads,

dry and culpable:

forever out of reach.

I remember the order of things -

sloes, leading a rush of starry blossoms:

apple, pear, cherry, plum;

fountains of white hawthorn flowing before the chestnut;

the chestnut opening before the beech;

I knew what would flower when,

hawkweed along hedges;

poppies banking on high verges;

rowans reddening overhead:

just now;

and now,

the years

have rolled to this point,

to this impounded summer

rooted in another landscape,

ghosted by the co-ordinates

of an older map:

the hill is swept by trees;

the gate is closed.

someone else is in the yellow house.

Wherever you lie,

come out;

the city walls are not so wide:

you walk my streets,

shop in my shops

wherever you are,

come out.

Daylight shrinks;

leaves gather;

along the old drive

crocuses bloom

with tiny purple wings

like birds escaping south.

The city calls

down long dark evenings,

faces flash-frozen

in the street.

Wherever you are,

come out

It is time,

It is time.

Forgotten Bounty

It stays -

that memory of flying once –

vassal states break free,

daring all.

The new frontiers

are all the News reports.

Journalists speak of cities

lost decades ago;

forgotten routes reopen,

fresh boundaries frame

the unsurvayed new nations

rising from the blank expanse

of disregarded maps.

Although the same autumn bonfire

smoulders at the edge of the Hyde Park

it is all changed:

the unending summer

has taken us from early lighted rooms

drawn us out

into a world we thought we knew,

and have to learn again.

I saw you

because it was too early to go home

because the party before was dull

because I chose that place, randomly,

and it is always the ease I remember;

the ease

and your voice moving us on.

All around the city dims,

shrinking space before us

to a single route

remembering the older roads

that lie beneath the asphalt.

All Night

Now all night long

beside you burn

and fold the frozen stars away;

the silver night,

secured and safe,

floods out across my dreams;

within my arms

again you turn -

the sweet grass

and the silent sky -

and all forgotten bounty breaks

within the space we lie.

Now It Is Cold

Why go, now it is cold?

Already the street lights burn

and the park gates are fastened;

stay.

The air is still;

the distant traffic rounds invisibly

in cold blue lanes below;

here,

our fingers move

from arm to face,

from lip to ear,

reading like blind men,

reading.

Behind these blinds

the distant world

is flat and closed;

stay.

Learning By Letter

Learning by letter

I link the points of your life,

the picture growing weekly,

cards, tapes, scraps of paper

dispatched, received weekly,

postmarking the route we take,

laying down a sense

that we had met

before we learnt

the adult arts of camouflage.

I lean against you

caught by the rebounding

differences of image,

a long lost freedom

returning

on forgotten tides

flooding the recent land

reassigning old boundaries,

throwing out links like landing ropes

until the dreaming jetties fill.

The River

Alone in the house

I see the river as a late traveller might,

a winding path cutting through low hills.

Colours change with an unreal haste;

you do not see them move

but where before it was blue,

now it is crimson;

where it was white

now it is gold.

Shadows surface from shapes,

trees fall out of focus.

It is colder.

Night binds the leafy lawns;

birds seek out a place

on bare boughs.

Behind the sirens of occasional barges

it is quiet;

smoke rises in thin blue columns.

The sun has sunk behind the hills

leaving a smudge of pink

silhouetting the old forest

where kings have hunted,

waged wars, built places, gone,

leaving this a...