1 

in tight lines 

a dozen houses 

line the winter wheat – 

already: 

frail bungalows 

with front lawns, 

at the village edge; 

homes, already, 

transitory as inns, 

and clamped 

to a new access road 

that slices 

though the down. 

diggers have quarried 

the chalk -  

upended it; 

torn out the clay beneath -

heavy, dark,

greasy as abattoir meat

embedded with flints,

clewing

to a long-departed sea.

in a web of cul-de-sacs,

of silent gardens

of chipboard walls

history is being forgotten;

the land is practicing

how to die.

SNODLAND, MARCH 1977

2

clouds clog

the river’s fallen level -

a dry day

at the furthest edge

of summer;

at the month’s

almost-final,

almost-end-point,

flat and still;

indestructible.

hay,

cropped in silent meadows

rests in long gold lines;

the battles to be fought

are far away;

nothing is corruptible;

now is all there is.

THE RIVER BEULT, AUGUST 1977

3

wade

in the corn waves

undisturbed;

come home -

there is no toll;

the hip-grass

will conceal and recall;

fearing no fall,

the dusty green

will restore the world,

its marks, its scars - 

bring it

to a field of sun -

to this home,

crushed out

within it.

NEAR CRANBROOK, AUGUST 1977

4

of course

there are grander things

than this Victorian rebuilding

of medieval stone;

but not for me.

for eight years i have been

its steadfast visitor,
 

a pilgrim of sorts,

returning to a place

where nothing

is urgent;

where custom points, 

like transepts,

to the enfolding

fields and woods

first written in Doomsday.

THE CHURCH OF ALL SAINTS, BIRLING, MARCH 1978

5

amongst the few remaining leaves

of last year’s autumn,

daffodils shake

in a slight breeze;

they lord it over the wilderness -

the stone angel

drowsy under moss;

the mausoleums,

rectangular, preoccupied;

the crooked tombstones,

dreaming of places

other than this;

the sleeping columbaria

spread between

the shot green shavings

of recent trees - 

defiant,

redeeming.

BIRLING CHURCHYARD, MARCH 1978

6

winter rain

has darkened

the hayrick’s sides;

now

a nine-hour sun

expands upon it,

restores it,

saves it

with lengthening days;

returning all.

SNODLAND, MAY 1978

7

only

on the road

between the trees;

only

on Birling Hill

do i evade

the day;

slip the sun

under leaf;

freewheel

on the scarp,

believing only

in Cistern Wood and Coney Shaw,

in Stonebridge and Ley;

in the fields that flit by,

worshipping only

the swift 

dark woods,

the down’s allegiant

oak, and beech, and chestnut - 

saved by speed

each time

i turn into

the ceaseless haze.

ON BIRLING HILL, JUNE 1978

8

now

the cool weaves

white;

the high day

ends;

the ridge

simplifies;

the downland

tightens –

a narrow gate,

darkly green -

trees open

to an ageless sky;

a time for nightjars, nightingales, sparrowhawks;

and i am

washed away.

TROTTISCLIFFE, JUNE 1978

9

this is a road

for sunday walkers,

wanderlusters

who go just so far,

their communion curtailed

by an absence of magic,

fitted in

between reading the papers

and lunch,

as is customary now.

THE SNODLAND TO BIRLING ROAD, JUNE 1978

10

clouds shift;

over the hill

the moon swells,

the grass,

dark this side,

lights up -

ignites a sudden thoroughfare

showing me the way,

night by night,

as i cycle sections

of the old pilgrim road,

all difficulties shattered,

past fields of clover, cowslip;

past Blackbusshe, Badgells Wood,

past the Battle of Britain cross,

TO RA AND REMEMBERING VERITY FORSYTH   

I hear you still  

clear, sure -  

talking to me  

now  

as you would talk to me  

then;  

a corner of the garden room;  

a long table laid for tea,  

books piled up,  

shadows of poets and painters  

stirring;  

listening,  

as you hear me say  

what I do not say;  

as you tell me  

what I need to hear  

but would not:  

I hear you still  

I hear you now,  

I hear you.  
  

Skona, July 1997  

DATE

This cycle of poems was written in the Weald of Kent between March and September 1979; the last one 18 years later in July 1997, in Skona.

1

for this

there is always

time -

your fragmentary will

concocts hours

where the day

has none,

etches

a far horizon

forever

in the sun.

2

take only touch

and that electric guess,

hand to hand,

till hearts

rest within flesh;

till your touch

upon my face

moves inside.

3

you would stretch out,

draw me apart,

for though

you do not know it

your time

is mine.

would you want more?

would you change

the tide

that carries us,

sand within a stream,

toward the sea?

evenly,

4

loving you:

the picture

safe

in the cabinet -

mine,

the dare to remove;

the white palms

stick with sweat

now summer comes.

5

knives cut -

and death's unknowing,

cells grow and bones will break,

and still,

the starting point -

your face,

ghosts all the change;

leaves -

silence,

a space for shadows;

a space to turn within;

and lie at bay.

6

your cry

hollows the hour,

touches stars

that won't explode:

and break their hold.

but

can hurl javelins

up at space

7

you may not believe it but,

after the battle,

rain washed the blood

onto the village streets,

into the Weald.

night falls

on the Bloody Mountain;

a bird pulls

against empty light;

bats fold into the

outline of trees,

black on black.

above us

a harvest moon

burns a circle in the sky.

8

let us stay,

smoke awhile

walk between the silver trees

of the Cinders track.

night holds us;

we lie

beside a water tank,

listening;

water

dripping

drop by drop

waiting

where nothing moves

the moment on,

where nothing moves.

where the air

is cool and grassy

9

your heart is high,

sweeping high:

tempers,

slackens, on again,

states of difference -

not by joining

I, in love,

would move.

10

in

your awkward beauty

the landscape breathes

with you;

I rest

I play;

in skies

the peacocks fly.

11

do not hold back;

you should not fear

you shine

for you

have the brightest light;

and shine

as life.

12

come,

we will evade this,

armour ourselves

as night checks day;

and a smooth sly light

slides through the orchards.

the

last bird songs

drain the day

into a shoal of trees.

we can evade all this.

13

we will become fond of these days;

go over them tirelessly

as armchair generals

over maps.

we lay down

the living death

like bottles

in a cellar;

effortlessly.

14

the abacus moves

but I will not;

its beads have a sort of rhythm,

a pretended order.

do not listen.

silence has a safer sound;

even calls the directions

of a hidden road,

easily missed.

15

i 'd rather not

think;

or imagine,

know,

or even

suspect,

grieve,

celebrate,

wonder.

I want to

live easy.

why

should I be troubled?

16

yours

is the gift that brings together,

that calls me in

that keeps me here;

your arms

open;

your imprint

haunts

your body,

is a barrier of words.

17

the train passes places

where nothing has changed,

where life has gone on

just the same

all the time

I have been

so caught up.

it will go on the same

when this ends;

18

daily

the state deepens

and I concede

to this round

and to that

the bets I place

the game I play,

the cards that fall

far short

of what I make.

19

you smile:

the knife you wield

opens the knot

the quickest way,

I saw you

walking in fields,

a dancer,

naked,

slender as a scorpion.

dares all

do you know

what we do?

20

lost time

is life's regret:

death guilds its share,

the days

rob and bleed,

and time

smashes easily as glass.

the calendar

breaks a little more each day.

21

love in distance,

and,

all the time

I know

that behind me

he kisses you;

you

do not know

his blooded lips

smear and conquer.

each return

you see

gets closer.

22

you turn

your eyes,

catch up my glance;

hold it

like a mirror,

distorting

by all

it cannot see.

23

he had made

a plaything of fear;

caught it in the mirror

with the sun.

autumn will rush

before the Kentish hops

to dredge his glass -

and the image,

unreflected,

noiselessly dies out.

24

death kisses you;

the offering of suns

gluts in your heart;

an unaccounting change

removes your hand.

you wake;

but the rage for life

sleeps on.

 ...

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 ...

So Watch

So watch 

my flesh decay

and see 

how beautifully it goes;

like something 

asking to be loved;

like you, 

too shy to ask me

to your room;

marks that will survive 

are marks on skin and mind:

not you with me,

not face to face;

and only this,

a last decay

pitching to hide itself

when each 

has gone their way.

Cause

Under empty skies

air finds no flags;

people march 

but the banners

are burnt;

the world

is bleeding into  hell,

and into hell

the world

betrayed.

My fist is flat,

the truth is traded;

there is nothing left 

to kill for

or to honour.

the world

is bleeding into  hell,

and into hell

the world

betrayed.

Angel

I bought a glass palace in Paradise

with a pool and fifty rooms;

and off its slender flagstaff

I can fly to the moon.

I’m god in the city, god in the town,

I came from hell but I’m here;

from nighttime to nightfall

my parties do not end.

I’m alive and free so look at me

I dream at the top of the sky;

my fingertips are strips of jade -

there’s no way I can die.

I’m god in the city, god in the town,

I came from hell but I’m here;

from nighttime to nightfall

my parties do not end.

Welcome, roll up, welcome,

watch kings and princes sigh;

they beg to use my golden wings.

they beg to learn to fly.

I’m god in the city, god in the town,

I came from hell but I’m here;

from nighttime to nightfall

my parties do not end.

City of Fear

Last night I flew over the city of fear;

dark coated people came down the streets;

they had angel eyes and shrank from light;

they looked at me and wished to fly -

but they couldn’t grow wings.

And in the end

it’s the end that living’ about;

they do not know how to go

they can escape no more

they have turned to salt

inside the doorways

of this city of fear.

Moon high, my rocket feathers carry me free

I see the late night-clubs open up,

the curtains of private room drift apart;

the battle’s over, but in coloured light,

the battle starts again.

And in the end

it’s the end that living’ about;

they do not know how to go

they can escape no more

they have turned to salt

inside the doorways

of this city of fear.

People wait with wet wide eyes 

but the gods have gone,

the night goes on;

coins rattle in their mouths

the gates have closed.

And in the end

it’s the end that living’ about;

they do not know how to go

they can escape no more

they have turned to salt

inside the doorways

of this city of fear.

Heros

Come kill the heroes,

tear the faces from the walls;

there’s no misleading

leads us closer

to Hell.

In every street, in every room

their faces stare, they take the air,

they grin and cheat and stir us;

they’ll do anything for us;

live our lives the way we want,

the heroes.

Pictures in magazines

blow up their public lives;

the roles they play

kill for us

and lie.

In every street, in every room

their faces stare, they take the air,

they grin and cheat and stir us;

they’ll do anything for us;

live our lives the way we want,

the heroes.

Wars won in cinemas

are all we never were;

and all we ever are

just turns 

to dust.

In every street, in every room

their faces stare, they take the air,

they grin and cheat and stir us;

they’ll do anything for us;

live our lives the way we want,

the heroes.

River

Night-time holds me down and empty

open to the flood;

nothing stops the river breaking in,

stops the river

breaking me.

Not sleeping, not waking,

I’m trapped in the dark –

cold shadows surround me

closing around me;

it’s the dream world

of a lost world

of a world that never was.

Faces, and the colours tasted

turn the years I have not lived;

take the lost road back,

take the road

unsaid.

Not sleeping, not waking,

I’m trapped in the dark –

cold shadows surround me

closing around me;

it’s the dream world

of a lost world

of a world that never was.

Cold City

In rooms and bars the city through

I see you face the same;

every word and touch we make

recalls our needs again.

There’s no time for holding back

no time enough for fear,

and if you wait forever

there’ll just be nothing there.

Yet when love moves and speaks

its eyes are flat and closed;

and every time we want to give

it suddenly lets go.

There’s no time for holding back

no time enough for fear,

and if you wait forever

there’ll just be nothing there.

We scare of loving, loosing dreams

with this love that must not say

with this love that cannot ever

declare itself again.

There’s no time for holding back

no time enough for fear,

and if you wait forever

there’ll just be nothing there.

So hold me on your fi...

I  

GIRLS, AND BOY  

Early sun dissolves the mist;  

bottles and chairs  

disrupt paths,   

paving, lawns;  

deer keep a cautious distance  

in parkland trees.  

On high-backed wicker chairs  

five girls talk, smoke;  

contractors dismantle  

tents, lights;  

fruit strung on green wire  

along boughs.  

At a table nearby

a boy sits alone,

playing cards.

II

GIRL, AND BOYS

Her hair is blonde,

expensive,

cut no ordinary way. 

Her feet rest on a footstool

on the grass.

The dress she wears

has small seed pearls

sewn on silk. 

the arm that almost touches him - 

does not move.

She watches,

Looking above his eyes.

She watches.

He runs his fingers

through his hair,

plays with the knot

of his white bow tie;

notes the girls who talk,

notes the girl in silk;

notes the boy

playing cards ,

nearby.

​

​

​​

III

BOYS

I watch you,

as I watch myself,

and know 

the breech

that undercuts your poise;

the face, disfigured

by its rebounding image,

clouded by what standard parts

it can't extract.

The picture blurs,

but does not hide

the other guests departing

in their pairs.

IV

ME, YOU, HER

The band is striking jazz tunes;

last tunes;

light breaks

through the marquee,

draws to shape

gothic buildings,

trees beyond the park

lit by the lights

of early motorists.

The moon shrivels

in the opening sky,

the blind spot grows:

and sorrow, snared;

the heart, too,

a castle without walls

an accomplice,

in search of an assailant

You meet my glance,

and stretch your arm to her,

fall in behind the pair

that goes ahead

and the one that follows on.

​

​

​

​

V

BOY, BOY

Behind the door

the recent world

is lost, 

and left behind. 

This is your territory, I know:

these trees, 

this house, 

this lane,

cleared by the departing taxi;

but you have not arrived here

like this before;

you have watched me,

but my voice is alien –

you have not seen eyes like mine;

not fingers, jaw, nape. 

I am not an old friend,

I am the visitor

you have always known;

the stranger within,

betraying with a kiss,

the kiss that waits.

VI

MOONWALKER

There is water on the moon;

and though I know

- sitting, almost close,

watching the sun slide

between solider trees –

though I know

- almost touching;

the cigarette's blue smoke

rising untasted –

though I know

what we are here for

by all we do not say;

though I know

there is water on the moon;

though I know

the names of Roman senators,

the parts of trees,

the rules of games,

I do not know 

what we make room for

here and now

below the tall trees of the wood.

VII

CHILD

​

These gestures know the force

behind lost words;

articulate what has closed

with a homing cry,

as if the way my fingers

hold your head

alone could touch

the anguish and the joy,

the child behind

the adult's face

whose eyes close in relief.

You sleep beside me

nervous to each move. 

Does the arm that holds me

knows who it holds? 

Am I your mother,

brother, lover?

Who holds you

when you sleep alone,

who holds you?

VIII

SOLOIST

If I were not so tired

I would spend the night

watching you sleep;

watching your fingers

tighten and relax;

your eyelids tremble;

open,

to what the morning will eclipse.

If I could trust myself

to care a little less,

I would wake you,

play this aching game

by patient rules;

but though the night

is pitched so quiet

you sing

and sing in me.

​

​

​

​

​

IX

MIGRANT

Because I have waited;

because I have waited so long;

because I have waited

beside old friends 

and even strangers,

and those grown tired of waiting;

because of all of this,

all this and more; 

because I have waited,

keeping you for a long journey,

I have not learnt

how to read the stars

I have not learnt 

the migrant paths

I have not learnt 

which tracks

lead across the frontier.

...

ONE 

Wholly beautiful, 

this is a remote 

withdrawn  

unsaid place; 

knowing nothing, 

wisdom held 

unaided. 

The volcano, 

burst, blistered,  

blasted before time, 

rises above savannah, 

autonomous. 

Nothing of what I have left behind 

has followed me here: 

no bars, or clubs, 

or safari parks 

swarming with mutinous animals; 

there are no buildings here,

no cables, no pylons, 

nothing.

There is nothing,

nothing; 

there are no roads even, 

nor walls, bridges, hospitals,

barbers, butchers, pharmacies; 

museums are absent; and shops,

and markets selling fruit

and sentimental knick-knacks.

TWO

Even the ruins

around this place

 have still to be built,

lived in, fought for, 

destroyed

by monsoon rains, 

by dead and dated wars,

and rebels

hiding from the recent defeats

of old conflicts

that never end;

there are just trees;

just podo trees

rising like citadels

around the titanic flanks

of the volcano;

trunks

thirty feet round;

their branches

forking low,

twisting,

arching

into artless beams,

hewn lintels,

giant joists;

a stronghold,

spontaneous, animate,

built in a high lapsed land,

soaring

above borders

that have worn into wasted lines,

pale snaking imprints

woven invisibly

between every spur and stream,

climbing the sides,

between ridges and peaks,

vents, conduits, lakes – 

the crater, cloistered, limitless:

every inch of every border

remembered in old, disputed books 

in archives in Nairobi and Kampala;

in the stories the tribespeople

tell each other

every breaking day

in villages far, far away.

THREE

Mostly though, there are no people here:

no trippers; 

no travellers, tourists, 

not even residents;

just me, 

and one bemused young driver

smoking through a pack

of Marlboro lights.

Especially, there are no houses,

no homes 

or gardens;

no streets or settlements.

In this place -

in this place here – 

no cars sound

no buses blare 

their loud exhausted horns;

there are no windows

to open

for music to escape from;

conversation to drift from

no drilling, grinding, crashing, crunching,

no barking dogs

or phones,

no people talking, shouting, singing,

nor even passing each other,

to pass the day

with a nod, a “Hi,” a “Humm”.

 In this place here

there are no rooms filled 

with the ordinary things

of life

or of objects passed 

from one generation 

to the next.

In this place here

it is the trees that talk,

that chatter and discourse

in sudden winds;

it is the birds 

that speak, confer, negotiate,

the buzzards, bustards, cuckoos, kites;

and the waterfalls, 

slapping over a hundred meters of rock,

the hot springs bubbling,

and hyenas baying at a cornered buffalo.

In this place

it is the sounds you cannot hear

you notice first and last:

the stealthy leopard,

the bushbucks, cobras, lizards.

This is a place

that leaves no trace.

FOUR

I have climbed here

quite alone,

leaving the jeep

where the level ground

ran out.

At the end 

of a ragged tread

of off-road tyres

the bush rolls,

scrub to forest;

long burnt grass 

- the colour of lions –

reaches to the forest 

on the mountain’s 

sheer as tombstones sides;

the slopes narrow 

to a lawless green,

strip out light,

break space

into an elaborate maze

only animals can navigate,

following the antique paths

made by wild elephants.

You hear them,

travelling by night,

scouring the salt caves,

their tusks - 

like the claws of massive diggers -

carving deep channels

into the volcano’s heart.

Jungle

defends the cancelled land,

morphs into thick shadows,

repeating and repeating

all that it is;

fugitive tracks -

the tread of wary animals - 

blur and disappear,

snaking off in the sombre light,

the measured lunatic murmur of insects

twists in tail-winds.

Colobus move.

FIVE

Python creepers curtain 

from forty-metre trees;

camphor, 

redwood, juniper,

rebuff

the shrinking sun.

A hungry old insistent night

begins to fall;

and in the evening mists

the volcano

appears and disappears;

floats,

through the turning years

since before the day was late;

a temple

over the world 

it made;

a dreamland built in fire and ash

 in tephra, cinders, lava,

a guarded shangri-la

whose gods have names

now quite forgotten

(if they were ever known at all).

Here, the jehovahs

are perfect, imperfect,

perpetually lingering on

heedless of permissions

craving not to know

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...

1   

Birch   

The birch boughs  

do not stir or sigh  

though the world  

is spinning.  

Oxford, March 1998  

2  

Here Comes The Spring I’d Stop  

Here comes the spring  

I’d stop,  

the buds  

I’d freeze  

before they fleck  

the hedgerows to a haze of green;  

here comes

the shining grass,

the bulbs,

the early blossom,

the tips of growth

swelling unstoppably

on the ends of branches

everywhere;

this is the spring

I’d halt,

returning time to a time

before we knew

you were to die,

so we could play those days

over again,

painless and manageable,

discreet carriers of a world

we could understand,

and of a god still one of love.

England, March 1998

I’m Not The Exile You Know

I am not the exile

you know,

thrown up

by a distant coup,

thrown off

by a war,

thrown out

by a sudden dictator,

yet my country

has vanished too,

its room reclaimed

from far away,

its colours no clearer

than I can keep them,

its daily patterns traced

behind each day.

Oxford, May 1998

With Micky

Tonight

the air is dark and smooth;

we sit

recovering,

the room muffled,

cooled

by an air-conditioner;

and how I need you,

your still arms,

your sound,

your smell,

and tonight,

especially, your love,

your fingers

brushing my forehead

lightly,

brushing it, bringing back

a lost fortress

amidst the pain.

Aswan, April 1998

Daylight

Now

the summer

does not wait,

will not wait,

cannot;

nothing stops

the light

flooding ahead,

flushing out

the end of day

London, May 1998

How Do I Make You Laugh

How do I make you laugh

when the bad news

will ever come,

when you tell me

that she fell on the half-step,

or could not sleep,

or slept too much;

how do I make you laugh

when you tell me

she could not eat,

that it is harder 

to find the air

to make the words

she wants to say;

that the machines 

have side effects,

that now the drugs 

do nothing,

that she is dying, 

fully awake,

in greatest need,

yet always – always – as she is:

how do I make you laugh then,

when our world is broken?

Oxford, May 1998

Being There

Sometimes 

this early summer

has tricked me out of grief,

fetching me into a world

where the disease

 has retreated,

taking with it 

each terrible promise

in its long, random decline;

you move in your wheelchair still,

but the fear of losing you

has been pushed back

at least a dozen years:

you can still enjoy the garden, 

travel,

watch your grandchildren

 grow a little older,

enjoy the ordinary rituals of love

- and be there –always – for me.

Oxford, May 1998

Tiger

Hourly your dying

lies between us,

a crouching tiger

poised

- even as we hold you –

when you struggle to rise;

when you fight to rest;

Oxford, June 1998

Where I Am

You are not dying here.

From where I am

I see you walking

on the terrace

above the Adyah,

kicking water in an

L-shaped pool,

playing tennis

on the court

by the banyan tree.

you are not dying here;

London, July 1998

Station

I expect you now,

this evening,

at this – and every - station,

walking out 

to greet me,

your simple movement

claiming each platform, 

each airport, home;

each city, town and village;

claiming each space -

for us, forever;

I expect you now;

I expect you here.

Plymouth, July 1998

What If

What if

what you

wanted

you had?

What if

what should be

was;

what if?

What then?

Oxford, August 1998

Remembering

It’s not my pain

that hurts,

but time, 

moving again

just next door;

the voices of children

rise and fall,

call,

as you struggle for breath.

It is time that hurts.

Time.

Oxford, August 1998

Phone Call

Although your fingers

move a little less

your strong voice

fills the phone,

charges the line,

charges me.

You are not old enough

to be dying;

stay:

you cannot go.

Oxford, August 1998

This Lovely Month

This lovely month

is full of death;

how do I hold 

the day,

to halt the night 

I dread?

Oxfo...

1  

PAPER BOAT  

slowly  

slowly  

like a paper boat  

turning in the wind  

on a glassy pond   

slowly  

slowly  

like a huge ship  

spinning in a boundless sea  

slowly  

slowly  

like a slurred boom  

on the edge of heaven  

slowly  

slowly  

you are going your way  

I cannot reach you.  

I modulate my voice  

speak twice as loud;  

I let you fall asleep

and do not intervene

I watch you slip,

slip

slip away

into the infinite firmness of age

slowly

slowly

you are going

and I cannot stop you;

what will be left

will be the echo of your voice

saying

just give me a hug son

slowly

slowly

you are turning

slowly

slowly

you are going away

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. JULY 2022

2

HIM

do you see him?

I do.

I see him so well,

now,

as if cataracts have been removed,

or darkness lifted,

or Bartimaeus met in town, betraying

the sight of men like trees, walking.

for there he is,

down this thought

and down that,

down every thought;

lurking inescapably,

stale as water that will not drain away,

blooming like an unkillable weed

on my perfect spotless green-as-life wildflower lawn.

yes,

there, there he is,

the bastard uninvited guest,

the foul changeling

morphing, little by little

bit by bloody bit

into the host.

at first, he was shockingly rare;

a parent here,

a distant friend,

a wise and gentle witch;

a clutch of gorgeous aunts.

now he comes like a commuter bus,

like a monstrous industrial vacuum cleaner,

like a tsunami mutilating

with its froth of white-brown brine,

gathering the broken limbs of far flung homes

a vortex,

churning, sweeping far inland to claim

a close friend here,

another there,

mother-in-law,

a mad and lovely herbalist,

another aunt.

plucked from their stops;

and others,

always others, waiting in further stops,

huddled

under the flimsy

rooves of bus shelters

as if they could ever evade this acid rain.

how do I tell him to fuck off

to fuck off to the furthest

bitter boundaries of the universe,

to the ends of time,

to the black mysterious ether

bubbling in unimagined territories,

the godless limitless lands

no maps depict;

how do I tell him to go,

to go, and not return;

to fuck right off

when I hear him

now,

when I hear him

now,

inside of me?

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. MARCH 2023

3

RAVEN

those most I know

those noises go;

and mad minds

draw the raven

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

4

OUR TIME

no longer do you

worry about what next to do

you are submerged by sleep

like the waves of Lyme Bay

we almost hear

a mile away,

Hope Cove, Thatcher’s Rock,

rolling, one upon another

you have lived so long,

so bloody long

putting one foot before the next.

I sit beside you.

a terrible rain

beating on the windows,

feeding you chocolates

when you wake;

playing you music –

the old tunes of the war,

of Calcutta,

of Bill and Ben,

Glenn Miller,

the ragged random paths

through almost 100 years of life

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

5

PAPA

you are so frail now.

your body twitches with random movements

fingers, knees

watching sometimes

alive,

stubbornly alive

hanging on,

in case something

important has been forgotten,

and needs to be done

before you go.

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

6

GOOD

it is not reciprocal

this good, you know -

as if it might return

to coat you back

like a bee with pollen

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

7

ALREADY

already,

yes already

I am already saying goodbye.

you sleep much more now

hears little

eat less.

you cling to your bed

like an iron sparrow

clinging to its tree

almost,

you are not here.

almost.

tomorrow

or if not tomorrow,

then someday soonish

you will have gone,

died,

buggered off;

left this planet,

left me.

and that will be it.

no amount of negotiated language

can put us both back

breathing the same air

in the same room.

and that, of course,

will also be

when my own oxygen

starts slowly

to run out too.

ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023

8

BUT FOR

but for your shoulder’s

briefest

briefest twitch

you could be dead.

beyond the half-closed curtains

and the open window,

parakeets call from mango trees;

crows caw;

an unendable burr of grasshoppers

summons from smooth green lawns:

and here, too

the ordinary thrill of country noises

hum,

and echo,

and chatter,

and splash.

at night,

foxes bark,

owls whoop;

and

baa-baa bleat the sheep

in their long sad day’s lament.

oh yes, daddy,

yes:

of course you are here and now –

here and now,

here and now,

still as a corpse,

deaf as a shell,

weak as an infant;

in pain, in fear,

tired, tearful, fretful, finished, forgetful,

utterly forgetful –

but here, now.

come,

let us think

beyond -

beyond this quiet room,

this modest, unaffronting room

where, just beyond your window

any country could wait.

come, let us think

beyond -

beyond this kind and cautious building;

beyond the kind lanes of Devon

and the buildings

rooted in red earth;

beyond the ceaseless misty drizzle,

the hedgerows high as chimneys

The Jungle, the Work of an Unknown Author, edited by David Swarbrick & Max de Silva.  Whether or not the original text of The Jungle included a dedication can, sadly, only be a matter of random speculation given the passage of so many  hundreds of years, but for my own part I would like to dedicate my contribution in its publication, the Preface and Notes to MM.  

I secrets  

Nothing yet  

          does the jungle give,  

however long you wait   

or watch;   

it is eternal,  

          it does not age.  

Its appearance 

is scarcely a hint

of all that is hidden - 

tight-lipped, 

dark green;

ceaselessly undisturbed, 

untouched, 

unconcerned even;

indifferent 

to what begins where,

or how, or why  -

as if it could know

that it will all

simply return.

Actually,

it is a great wall, 

limitless,

its ends unreported,

holding close

the smuggled secrets

          of this day 

and tomorrow,

of one millennia 

to the next,

filtering the sun like a censor,

carrying forward its confidential cargos 

in low capacious vaults.

Listen now;

          stop, and listen.

It speaks in ciphers

that have no key,

yet picks out imperfections

betraying them

like a spy to an enemy,

dipping, dipping 

into nameless valleys

and up the steep sides 

of unforgetting hills.

II island

The songs that have endured

are merely words,

the tunes themselves long lost;

the texts are somewhat incomplete,

but what survives

is that perfect island,

          presented in the way 

a child might dream of an island

          set in a great sea,

                    rising up from forested beaches 

                    to a centre of mighty mountains

                    that disappear into clouds.  

Immense rivers

tumble back down.

In the villages

the old dances are still young;

          new babies

          are fed on milk

          dipped in gold

          before their horoscopes are taken.

Numbers rule the universe.

Boys touch the feet of elders;

households

prepare their daughters

to come of age

washed in water with herbs, 

          the girl concealed

          until she is presented 

          with her own reflection

          swimming in a silver bowl

beneath her face.

The gems later looted from their antique tombs

were not even from the island -

          diamonds, emeralds,

even amber, to mix

with their own stones,

          pink sapphires and rubies, 

garnets, topaz, aquamarines;

rose quartz 

fine enough to see through.

Carpenters inlaid furniture 

with ivory and rare woods; 

crafted secret chambers, 

hidden drawers.

Fish sang off long sandy beaches.

And along the rivers 

stretched parks,

warehouses, jetties, mansions.

III bounty

Later,

they measured that happiness,

when happiness was a choice,

          recalling a time of bounty,

an embarrassment of great cities,

of shipping lanes that converged 

on southern ports.

The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon 

welcomed visitors.

Kings ruled,

          father to son,

brother to brother,

daring to do all they thought,

There were brindleberries and fenugreek; 

lemongrass, mangos;

          the coconuts fruited;

                    frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,

even kadupul flowers, 

queens of the night.

High wooden watchtowers rose protectively

over wide courtyards,

          and gardens grew cardamom, 

cinnamon, cloves, vanilla.

Waters rippled in great tanks 

built by kings like inland seas

to flow to fields and homes.

Kitchens prepared milk rice

and new dishes

with ginger and kitel, 

turmeric, tamarind.

In the shade of palace buildings

frescos were painted, statues carved,

          the talk was of new trade routes,

marriages, miracles.

Tomorrow is tomorrow - 

                              Here I picked a flower, and this is for you.

Mangosteen ripened in orchards

their seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,

strips of edible flesh.

It was like eating sex.

Within the stupas

were thrones and begging bowls,

          and relics won in foreign wars.

From northern temples

great chariots were hand pulled 

through the crowded streets

by thousands of worshippers.

Fortifications, moats, ramparts

guarded the borders; 

          the realm was not made for defeat;

          and the fishermen flung their nets with ease.

IV underfoot

Somewhere, 

rotting in its red earth