Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines

Concordance

This concordance provides an index to every word in the poems, excluding a list of common "stopwords".  It may be useful in finding a half-remembered poem, and perhaps in looking at the usage of words in the poems as a whole.  It will be readable only on a large screen.

C

i?  // // Some fruit // // Present for
C —book?  // // Coat to cleaners // // Pay newsagent // // Bulbs for
60W screw???—check first // // Cash m/
c // // Washing // // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s contact maybe /
wayward seed, // // Planting out this
cabbage -bed— // // She was once a lady’s maid // // In gracious, tow
island in the river, // // Tending her
cabbage patch forever, // // The hermit of Shalott.  // //
nes speak out— // // add to the road’s
cacophony .  // // Dialectic // // Voices coming from the room next do
nes speak out— // // add to the road’s
cacophony .  // // Through air and ether people mutter, shout, // // v
th anglo-saxon attitudes // // then to
Caerphilly came.  // // They lingered long in Leicestershire; // // r
llege // // The Chimney; Cranmer Room;
Café Bar // // courts; staircases; playing fields // // One to five
er box.  // // I love you.  // // Wi-fi
café .  Send a letter.  // // Laptop, plug in power socket.  // // Click
ron plate glue east // // Grow face fa-
cai thick soup.  // // XO sauce explodes to grow the fragile bone.  //
// The impregnable fortress makes fish
cake .  // // Fried kind’s of seafood in monolith // // Do the crispy
// —in muesli, say, or maybe Christmas
cake , // // or more appropriately, Suliman’s pilaf.  // // But stay m
round // // smoked trout, wevet, bone,
calamine // // lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron, calluna // // bra
urdough starter.  // //   // // In the
California gold rush of 1849, and again in the Klondike in 1896, in or
hich in my London childhood // // we’d
call a bombsite—desolate but rife // // with memory and desire, ferti
// effect.  At last we felt we had to
call // // a halt to worry, and agreed to sell // // for demolition,
es, // // and fighters too.  The siren
call // // is in reverse, a brief release— // // until the following
// // to reach by boat.  That place we
call Japan: // // against the sky, a line of those same firs // // l
ily win—but // // there was an old man
called Michael Finnegan— // // crowds stopped by his strange shenanig
Beginagain // // There was an old man
called Michael Finnegan.  // // He grew whiskers on his chin—but // /
fort in—but // // there was an old man
called Michael Finnegan.  // // The wind came up and blew him in again
hing in—but // // there was an old man
called Michael Finnegan— // // thought his profile needed broadening
topped by his strange shenanigan // //
called out all their kith and kin—but // // the wind came up and blew
ose to a version of Rodin’s Balzac, and
called “Post-Balzac”.  It is a full-length bronze cape, upright and ro
// But the next war comes, and D is now
called up.  // // First to Hunmanby on the north-east Yorkshire coast
ace seaward // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // against the current pushing strongly townward.  // // B
he harbour; // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // at the bar the waves are washing over.  // // Breath th
s.  Listing // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // boats are stranded at their stations, waiting // // Br
// Look up, look up, my love—the sky is
calling .  // // Dark shapes are calling each to each: a throng // //
sky is calling.  // // Dark shapes are
calling each to each: a throng // // moves north against the fading e
d lift them // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // echoes of the distant sea-swell rock them // // Breath
w accretion // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // in places it has lost, reoccupation // // Breath the s
urn, begins // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // retreating back the way it came, regains // // Breath
actors of the age.  // // Thank you for
calling Shakespeareline. // // * pronounced ’four hundred’ // //
tle trickle // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // the drying sand with muddy spots bespeckled.  // // Bre
d once more // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // to face the town, runs headlong for the bar, // // Bre
water rises // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // to the edges of the sea-grass—pauses, // // Breath the
t, receding // // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // // water’s edge, the birds are searching, finding.  // //
// lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron,
calluna // // brassica, hay, pelt, dove tale, pigeon // // mouse’s b
forth and to and fro, // // in a flat
calm air.  A winter storm // // brings wild mountains of water crashi
line of pebble-dunes protects // // a
calmer green oasis, band of salt-marsh // // where barn-owls hunt the
recall.  // // Up there are storms and
calms , // // earthquake-waves and volcanic dust, // // soft breezes
op case // // plea as copy.  // // Ape
calypso // // place, so pay // // a cosy Apple // // app, coy sale.
of pain, // // another summer, home in
Camberwell .  // // Between the endpoints there were many days // // —
to sell // // for demolition, move to
Camberwell .  // // (Two weeks later, British Rail’s plans // // were
Distance chart // //
Cambridge –Camden 59 miles // //
/ drops thirty feet into a hole.  // //
Cambridge , circa 1966 // // One cold winter’s afternoon // // we wal
iano piece.) // // Standing around the
Cambridge crematorium, // // dressed for the occasion, // // we read
footbridges // // One to ten thousand: 
Cambridge // // Petty Cury; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // // streets
ngrad in Soviet days.  Kettle’s Yard in
Cambridge when it was still managed by Jim Ede (he would pick up a Bra
Distance chart // // Cambridge–
Camden 59 miles // //
// // England.  // // Back the way we
came .  // // All verse is born free.  // //
last for days and days.  Each morning I
came down, // // expecting to find it cold, but every day // // the
lling // // retreating back the way it
came , regains // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // the
xon attitudes // // then to Caerphilly
came .  // // They lingered long in Leicestershire; // // red was the
ir // // when Maggie’s encomium // //
came to be known to ’im. // // … and one poet // // Thomas Stearns E
/ // dated 1933 // // the year Hitler
came to power).  // // Then we get on with our lives: // // the repai
alled Michael Finnegan.  // // The wind
came up and blew him in again.  // //
flaunt a bushy grin—but // // the wind
came up and blew it in again.  // // Beards may need some clipping, sh
hiskers on his chin—but // // the wind
came up and blew them in again.  // // Beards are good for finger-fidd
their kith and kin—but // // the wind
came up and blew them in again.  // // Beards are great when gales are
eder dredges // // Through the silt of
Camelot .  // // But what is this small beaten path // // Between two
ows, by // // The once-proud towers of
Camelot .  // // Few people walk the brambled way // // And fewer stil
mirror’s gloam // // Dared she look to
Camelot .  // // Not until the fateful day // // When, gleaming in his
ople fill // // The wharfs and ways of
Camelot .  // // Only one remains to shiver // // On the island in the
lady’s maid // // In gracious, towered
Camelot .  // // Then, as winds of fortune blow, // // It was arranged
/ // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th // //
Camera in bag for Mon // // Did I submit tax form??  // // Check L’s
From Brussels by local train to Ghent: 
canals and cobbled streets // // and beer and chocolate shops // //
rails.  I’m not such a mug.  // // I’ve
cancelled his buses, no more will I pay for—and // // now on the brid
too far south all its life: // // not
cancer , but capricorn.  // // Catheter // // // Objective // // An
he bad news, then the good: // // it's
cancer ; but it hasn’t spread.  // // No balance here.  The bad // //
The fall is denied.  // // Anyway, the
cancer can be blamed // // for many things.  Hard to tell, now, // /
// orange and penny.  // // Brandy, a
candle : // // heat till it catches fire, // // pour out the blue fla
Babylon by
candlelight // // How many miles to Barnard Castle?  // // Three scor
/ // Feel the fire.  Spread out a green
canopy // // in the warming sunlight.  Soak up the rays and the air.  /
golds replace the greens.  Now throw the
canopy too // // to the winds, let it whirl away // // into the encr
, contains our own // // tree-house, a
canted deck of ancient planks, // // nailed across two angled branche
e trees against the blind.  // // Under
canvas // // Night-time noises permeate the air // // with voices hu
A cloppy sea // // Lose pay
cap , // // O palace spy.  // // Lay pop case // // plea as copy.  //
the right.  And rising left // // the
Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard side.  // // At centre, as if growi
Cape Cod Morning // // Almost accidental, but carefully composed:  //
Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan Island;
Cape Sable // // bays; harbours // // One to one million two hundred
st-Balzac”.  It is a full-length bronze
cape , upright and rounded as if on the shoulders of its owner, but act
it did a month gone, // // BC (Before
Capricorn ).  // // But of course that is not so.  // // Seen from here
th all its life: // // not cancer, but
capricorn .  // // Catheter // // // Objective // // An exobladder. 
Capricorn suite // // In other news // // // Five days after Charli
Carapace // // Tiny hardness on tiny softness.  // // Softness crawls
ry’s // // photo gives Labour a // //
cardiovascular // // seismic event.  // //
can whistle // // as well for wind: we
care not a tittle.  // // Many die—thus limiting their needs.  // // T
// // another part of the bush.  Take
care not to spill // // your precious hoard (I mean the ones you will
The words within my head, what do they
care ?  // // They rattle round, and link, and split, and fight.  // //
s ranged all around // // —they little
care .  // // Voices far across the valley sound // // through still,
// to questions orderly, while exuding
care .  // // Voices from the curtained bed next door: // // someone e
d Morning // // Almost accidental, but
carefully composed: // // the sky behind the trees beyond the meadow,
re sections, with plywood strips // //
carefully cut and glued.  And labelled the front— // // Nails: tacks,
rry with them their sourdough starters,
carefully protected in pouches around their necks or attached to their
at college // // Sergei Prokofiev and
Carl Orf // // still at school // // Aaron Copland and Kurt Weill //
wered chest // // given to me (budding
carpenter ) as a child // // for nails and screws.  At some more order
that covers the heath.  // // On magic
carpet // // the Prince of Crim Tartary // // flies into the night. 
d did I make my way?  // // Across what
carpets , rugs or floors?  // // I cannot say.  // // The houses, and t
es suburban trains; more rarely, // //
carriages decked in the blue and gold livery // // of the Compagnie I
// ply back and forth overhead.  Was I
carried for trade?  // // Or in payment of taxes?  Or was I a trophy o
arriers just in time // // to keep the
carriers of plague at bay.  // // Yet someone here is staggering and s
that disturbs.  The line // // mostly
carries suburban trains; more rarely, // // carriages decked in the b
ark at the back // // a low embankment
carries the railway track.  // // (Down the slope to the end of the st
merican poet, // // Mr Ogden Nash, and
carry on without much attention to metre, until I can mark its end wit
p now, I have to use spectacles.  // //
Carry them with me wherever I wander… but // // help!  They are missi
San Francisco bread, prospectors would
carry with them their sourdough starters, carefully protected in pouch
k // // in filtered blue light, // //
carrying hardness with it.  // // Sometimes softness shelters inside h
rumour states // // that the train is
carrying nuclear waste; at the time // // it is just the timing that
// meandering through the marsh // //
carve out sections of bank // // leaving sharp cliffs of compacted mu
at each turn.  // // (Stay close to the
carved bank // // for the deeper channel.) // // In the tidal creeks
each iteration // // shifts the sand,
carves the coastline // // into something new // //
angelo // // makes his work lasting by
carving in stone— // // me, I’m not looking for such immortality, //
es just to keep a healthy handle on the
case . // // * following the example of the chemists and their sort /
// gets the Red Margaret to look at the
case .  // // “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on our taxes.  The // // te
your thoughts, destroy or reconstruct a
case : // // jump willing into every word-filled well.  // // That boo
ap, // // O palace spy.  // // Lay pop
case // // plea as copy.  // // Ape calypso // // place, so pay //
sign reads slow you down // // just in
case we were driving too fast.  // // I was probably driving too fast
ghts—CS 60W screw???—check first // //
Cash m/c // // Washing // // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s contact
tability except our own.  // // In hard
cast bronze all hardness now replaced, // // the soft and sensuous fl
Electrical components.  // // A pair of
cast -iron supports for an old // // high-level lavatory cistern, wond
have-been, // // a different stitch to
cast ?  // // No, I’m glad we did not meet // // before the alotted ti
er gales.  // // Was I shipwrecked?  Or
cast overboard to avert shipwreck?  // // I cannot now recall.  // //
/ // fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  // //
/ // fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  // // And now, this book, the here and now dispel // //
/ // fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  // // That book will set you puzzles which propel // //
/ // Fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  // // That book will take you o’er a stormy fell // // w
elight // // How many miles to Barnard
Castle ?  // // Three score, out/return // // Can I go there, with my
/ // models in clay or plaster, // //
casts in plaster or cement or resin, // // draws in pencil or pen or
night.  // // The paraffin stove // //
casts patterns of light on the // // high bedroom ceiling.  // //
r: // // this cat-burglar’s Buster the
cat .  // //
n purple sage to lie.  // // A Cheshire
cat accosted them, // // then walked his wild way // // alone.  In S
s only one possible answer: // // this
cat -burglar’s Buster the cat.  // //
them crashing down.  // // What is this
cataclysm ?  // // Now the one just ahead // // goes head over heels /
die.  // // But for the real turn, the
cataclysm // // which will both inspire and destroy // // so many po
n.  // // No fruit here—the thorns will
catch // // at your sleeve, at the tails of your coat, // // and som
// the clouds scud past, // // maybe
catch // // close enough to make you jump, or far away, // // the th
makes us strong.  // // Occasionally, I
catch glimpses // // of the ranks ahead.  // // But mostly, I can see
match // // flame unfurls // // twigs
catch // // smoke curls // // flame unfurls // // smoke grows // /
ke match // // tiny light // // twigs
catch // // strike match // // flame unfurls // // twigs catch //
ring!  // // He swallowed the string to
catch the hook.  // // That’s not in the book, to swallow a hook.  //
// // dropping by unannounced.  // //
Catch them at it – // // there must be moonshine.  // //
dge and the samphire, // // the oyster-
catcher , the egret, the gliding gull.  // // What do they know, the ra
each.  // // At water’s edge the oyster-
catchers , gulls // // compete for surface scraps.  The beach is good
in a while // // a perfect burst still
catches at my tastebuds // // and drags me back again.  // //
/ Brandy, a candle: // // heat till it
catches fire, // // pour out the blue flame.  // // After lunch, a wa
still // // climbing the contours and
catching my breath again.  // // Skirting the back of the Little Man p
ed round about, a motley crew // // of
categories in boxes, jars and tins: // // the larger bolts and nuts a
/ // not cancer, but capricorn.  // //
Catheter // // // Objective // // An exobladder.  // // Strapped to
e.  // // But when my support // // is
caught badly short // // I’ll just have to ask ‘Where d’you pee?’  //
// to you, this is a dream in which I’m
caught .  // // But through this land, this country I must go— // // I
// To you, this is a dream in which I’m
caught // // Which, come the dawn, will surely quickly pass.  // // I
nt— // // but that is a symptom, not a
cause .  // // A // // The fall drew blood.  // // No such obvious cul
tal-working vices added to those // //
caused by generations of kitchen knives.  // // Clearance time.  What
// eat me instead.  // // My ancestor
caused Eve to know // // more than Jehovah thought she should— // //
Septilla
CD * // // Please choose from the following nine // // options: if y
t best // // a semi-stanza—and then to
cease ?  It seems // // perverse—the more because the fellow // // wa
barrel // // the sound of scraping has
ceased .  // // This drain germinates here.  // //
rns of light on the // // high bedroom
ceiling .  // //
paper from walls, // // distemper from
ceilings , // // paint from woodwork, // // lino from floors.  // //
new production for this year // // of
celebration —every line // // the Bard created for the stage // // by
or plaster, // // casts in plaster or
cement or resin, // // draws in pencil or pen or charcoal, // // pai
in a wild part of the old South London
cemetery .  // // Perhaps I should plant // // some box or holly.  //
use’s painted clapboard side.  // // At
centre , as if growing from the clapboards, // // but grander far, a c
oll on.  // // How many years, decades,
centuries // // have I lain upon this sandy seafloor?  // // I cannot
.  // // It’s a level measured // // a
century ago and // // three hundred and forty miles // // to the sou
e!  // // From the moment almost a half-
century ago // // when I first met your daughter // // I have known
of that wonderfully eccentric twentieth-
century American poet, // // Mr Ogden Nash, and carry on without much
with marks and signs accumulated over a
century and a bit.  There is an area about 2ft square of brush marks i
young man?  No, this is about // // a
century and a half before Columbus.  // // He is a leader of Flemish w
stone // // that will be the twentieth
century — // // for this we have to wait // // another thirteen and a
not the one // // making the twentieth
century only // // ninety-nine years long.) // // Béla Bartók and Fr
a go at East Hills.  // // A once in a
century storm, // // that was thought to be.  // // So perhaps they w
ary Nineteen Hundred and One // // The
century turns.  // // Right on cue, Queen Victoria dies.  // // (Next
/ // (She had chosen the music for the
ceremony // // —a Schubert piano piece.) // // Standing around the C
some of them sublime— // // Britten’s
Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // // If I can filter out the rest,
some of them sublime, // // Britten’s
Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // // What the thunder said // // W
acceptance.  // // Set against this, a
certain toughness, // // hidden, but evident in the number, // // be
tion lies // // in their cups.  Thomas
certainly did his level best // // to drink himself to death.  But fo
er than seeing it on the page they will
certainly know it.  // //
e more ordered // // stage of my life (
certainly long before // // the children arrived) I divided each draw
its door.  Rage too against // // the
cessation of treatment— // // but that is a symptom, not a cause.  //
s her skin.  // // In Cheddar Gorge the
chaffinches // // were twittering.  The twain // // with anglo-saxon
d absurd // // slave again // // pull
chain // // be bold // // brake train // // it’s plain // // grow
ng table?  // // No.  // // Beside easy
chair ?  // // No.  // // On television?  // // No.  // // Desk?  // //
ain, more drawers and cupboards.  // //
Chair with pile of clothes.  // // Feel something…  // // Shit!  The w
// in truth, how cheesy is the sometime
chalk .  // //
ves, the naked and the nude // // were
chalk and cheese; so what would he have made // // in twenty-ten, of
is looming, inviting explorers—a // //
challenge I cannot allow to go answerless.  // // Lone expedition to c
you will miss // // the instant jagged
challenge passing between them // // or down to earth.  // // Seconds
magine?  Not to rave // // at fate, at
chance , at // // what has come about, but to close // // an open sor
dren to look after— // // there was no
chance for her to follow him.  // // There was a week of waiting while
chizophrenia.  // // After G’s death, a
chance // // for something new: migrate south // // to London, two
ing there wondering whether there’s any
chance // // I could attract the attention of anyone.  // // Haven’t
must have crossed, // // some passing
chance of might-have-been, // // a different stitch to cast?  // // N
reasures, and regret not having had the
chance to show some of them to her.  Just for example:  Judith Shea’s
and get old saint // // George of the
Chancel to throw in some too.”  // // So the project proceeds with a l
only in relation to the bad.  // // The
chances are said // // to be good.  That’s good // // enough, I supp
aths, or creeping through, // // maybe
chancing on a hidden hollow which // // will make a temporary home, u
isolation palls.  // // One more great
change , one more new beginning: // // a different kind of home // //
ries.  The vital stress // // expresses
change .  Some variant has found // // how good sex is—to mix the genes
Stravinsky.  // // A turn, a period of
change ?  // // Well, yes.  In all the arts // // currents criss-cross
ermanence’s permanence the rule.  // //
Change will last forever.  // // At intervals along the south horizon
o.  // // Seen from here, the future is
changed // // utterly.  And I have the scars // // to prove it.  //
for life.  // // Another billion random
changes : all // // —or almost all—are duds.  Nevertheless // // ten t
l and playful, like the wind.  // // It
changes direction from minute to minute; // // gives me siblings to c
inds bring // // The trickle slackens,
changes in the harbour; // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // at
ning stream // // rambling moor // //
changing sea // // blue sea // // silver lake // // purple moor //
Where are we going?  // // Something is
changing : the ocean // // is bottomless no longer.  // // I feel some
we cross are eastward: // // under the
channel and then from France to Belgium.  // // But we don’t notice th
o the carved bank // // for the deeper
channel .) // // In the tidal creeks that snake // // across the salt
radial anchor lines.  // // Across the
channel , tidal creeks // // meandering through the marsh // // carve
t would sink // // a hole to build the
Channel Tunnel link.  // // A monstrous hole, quite big enough to eat
e scents the sea-winds bring // // the
channel , turns the boats around once more // // Hear the marsh-birds
iver mouth the tides run strong.  // //
Channels and banks of shingle shift and melt, // // form and reform e
the sky.  // // Oceans, rivers, narrow
channels , torrents, // // tarns, and streams slow-flowing, under the
sea-winds bring // // In the saltmarsh
channels water rises // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // to the
rming, breaking, forming // // ordered
chaos with a raucous song:  // // A thousand geese are flying into nig
xt bend, the banks // // will exchange
character .  // // A flowing river, meandering across // // a flood pl
resin, // // draws in pencil or pen or
charcoal , // // paints in oils on hardboard.  // // — // // 1973.  S
es something in the shapes, and using a
charcoal stick, makes some small additions.  And it becomes a scene, a
I am transfixed as a horned goat // //
charges towards me // // from beyond the pale, under my guard, // //
s me eat a peach?  // // Time’s warring
chariots can clatter by— // // we have the earth, the water and the s
n other news // // // Five days after
Charlie Hebdo, I learn // // that something is growing at the tail en
s or elephant’s breath // // peignoir,
charlotte’s locks, nancy’s blushes // // drop cloth, slipper satin, w
Distance
chart // // Cambridge–Camden 59 miles // //
denotations, connotations.  // // Roget
charted their associations.  // // Zipf was counting their instantiati
s // // be relocated every spring, the
charts // // redrawn).  // // The line of pebble-dunes protects // /
to minute; // // gives me siblings to
chase or criss-cross // // over and under // // as we skip on the ba
I pulled or pushed?  // // Did I leap a
chasm , ford a raging torrent, // // get rolled over by an avalanche,
under // // the bubbling brooks, that
chatter and meander; // // of Ellen, Norna, or of Rosamunde.  // // S
s—already // // between the end of the
Chatterley ban // // and the Beatles’ first LP; // // strangely, tho
evement, but got // // only a fib on a
cheap pun // // … a swindle…  // // [One iamb, two anapest] feet //
two.  // // But for the two ones I must
cheat . // // … a steal…  // // Rage, // // rage // // against // /
house.  // // I always regretted, felt
cheated by // // that twenty-minute hiatus.  // // But the fire bore
ulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W screw???—
check first // // Cash m/c // // Washing // // Plan finances—get ad
n // // Did I submit tax form??  // //
Check L’s dob—70 next b/day?  // // Dentist appointment—week of 10th /
y journey unaided—I // // just have to
check on my map for the best way back.  // // Reading a map now, I hav
ement // // Tickets for Once Sat night—
check time // // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th // // Camera in bag for
w him see // // across the criss-cross
checks and grids and patterned lattices of life // // through glasses
/ so milk-white was her skin.  // // In
Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // // were twittering.  The twain // /
/ // brings a thought that is far from
cheering : // // that while the past // // will last and last, // //
alking talked— // // but never once of
cheese .  // //
aked and the nude // // were chalk and
cheese ; so what would he have made // // in twenty-ten, of all the fl
ote to his remark— // // in truth, how
cheesy is the sometime chalk.  // //
// // * following the example of the
chemists and their sort // // ** because the margin is too narrow for
d water: just the four— // // but the
chemists need many more.  // // The top of the table is sparse, but ev
orth to the border // // (bringing the
cheque and the postal order).  // // Rhythmic verses with echoed refra
// // on purple sage to lie.  // // A
Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then walked his wild way // // alo
/ // a miniature wooden eight-drawered
chest // // given to me (budding carpenter) as a child // // for nai
her of much later age: // // a plastic
chest with small, clear plastic drawers // // —unlabelled, but the nu
count your chickens // // … but if the
chicken // // is just the egg’s // // way of making // // another e
// The prefecture of river drives meal
chicken , // // Olive dish dried meat floss stir fries a leaf mustard.
Don’t count your
chickens // // … but if the chicken // // is just the egg’s // // w
joins love’s embrace.  // // Mother and
child are two, and now are one: // // no perfectability except our ow
// given to me (budding carpenter) as a
child // // for nails and screws.  At some more ordered // // stage
r name of Gouriet) // // had come as a
child sixty-odd years before // // (well before the start of the firs
c clattering noise of the train.  // //
Childhood journeys by rail come back // // to my memory, patterns of
wild Suffolk blackberries // // of my
childhood remain forever perfect, // // forever simultaneously sweet
void // // as that which in my London
childhood // // we’d call a bombsite—desolate but rife // // with me
// // for demonstrating electricity to
children : // // a wooden board on which are mounted // // battery bo
life (certainly long before // // the
children arrived) I divided each drawer // // into four or more secti
crowded hospital.  // // There were the
children to look after— // // there was no chance for her to follow h
// // Years have passed.  The winter’s
chill // // Lies fast upon the land so ill.  // // Seldom now the sky
two thousand:  Jesus College // // The
Chimney ; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // // courts; staircases; playing fie
innegan.  // // He grew whiskers on his
chin —but // // the wind came up and blew them in again.  // // Beards
town.  // // Mother once ran a fish-and-
chip shop.  // // A young rambler, you take part // // in the mass tr
and cobbled streets // // and beer and
chocolate shops // // and churches, churches, churches // // and bui
a speaker heard, // // at every word a
choice has made.  // // Those that they choose to use // // to inform
ight macbeth; nine // // for any other
choice .  You’ll find // // that every single play is here // // a ne
Hopper
Chōka // // Yellow neon light // // spilling through plate-glass win
r’s head.  // // If Aristotle makes you
choke // // eat me instead.  // // My ancestor caused Eve to know //
, taking logs and drawing lines.  // //
Chomsky looked for deeper motivation // // underneath their surface c
Septilla CD* // // Please
choose from the following nine // // options: if you want the tempes
choice has made.  // // Those that they
choose to use // // to inform or confuse, // // elate or validate or
o successive summer holidays, // // we
chopped and sawed and dug and then set fire to // // the produce of o
mountain // // jagged mountain // //
choppy sea // // swirling stream // // smooth lake // // dense fore
o a life // // Milk // // Sausages or
chops // // Veg—broccoli?  // // Some fruit // // Present for C—book
at it is she sees?  The frame // // he
chose has cut us off from looking at // // the focus of her gaze: doe
rever been lost // // if the apple had
chosen a dunce.  // // // // There remains a small bruise on my head
rematorium.  // // This time Judith has
chosen the music, // // a Beethoven string quartet.  // // Afterwards
proper formal funeral.  // // (She had
chosen the music for the ceremony // // —a Schubert piano piece.) //
place // // —in muesli, say, or maybe
Christmas cake, // // or more appropriately, Suliman’s pilaf.  // //
// the planted forest, serried ranks of
Christmas pine // // which begins a mile down the road // // and int
// // A bartender bent to work; // //
chrome coffee machines.  // // At the bar three people sit // // all
te shops // // and churches, churches,
churches // // and buildings that turn out not to be churches.  // //
nd chocolate shops // // and churches,
churches , churches // // and buildings that turn out not to be church
and beer and chocolate shops // // and
churches , churches, churches // // and buildings that turn out not to
/ and buildings that turn out not to be
churches .  // // Wonderful mechanisms in the civic belltower— // // a
/ the gulls, and faintly, far away, the
churn // // of waves upon the sand.  Eastwards we turn, // // along
// something solid underneath us // //
churning the water, // // disturbing our roll, // // getting higher
// best expressed Roman fashion:  // //
CII .  // // We // // As for us, the bits begin to fall off.  // // We
becomes a daily ritual.  // // Suffolk,
circa 1958 // // After the floods of fifty-three // // they raised t
rty feet into a hole.  // // Cambridge,
circa 1966 // // One cold winter’s afternoon // // we walk to the ed
Circle line // // Board anywhere // //
e’s a thought.  Just maybe I can // //
circle round the tentacles of zeta // // by striking gamma from consi
s for an old // // high-level lavatory
cistern , wonderfully // // ornate.  A pump and valves from a washing
see?  // // I cannot now recall.  // //
Cities flourish and decay.  In forgotten corners, // // artists creat
mine // // lichen, brinjal, radicchio,
citron , calluna // // brassica, hay, pelt, dove tale, pigeon // // m
sed triangles // // of city herbage in
city clag // // —a handful of trees, bulbs // // and other plants.  /
ng two small raised triangles // // of
city herbage in city clag // // —a handful of trees, bulbs // // and
holiday by train!  Vast hall // // of
city station, noisy, full // // of people rushing there and back.  //
it: a scattering // // of people in a
city street, shop-window-browsing.  // // A group, gathered around and
pped away.  // // What country lanes or
city streets— // // and who were my companions, pray?  // // Old frie
hes.  // // Wonderful mechanisms in the
civic belltower— // // a giant musical box.  // // There once was a p
e was a war.  // // There was a bitter,
civil // // war in Jordan.  // // There was a gun.  // // There was a
/ // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // //
/ // the bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // // At night, the glow and flying sparks.  // // Grass on th
// to my memory, patterns of clickety-
clack .  // // But that was then.  Now the rail joints are welded, and
the back.  // // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // //
the track: // // the bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // // At night, the glow and flying sparks.  // //
ext track.  // // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // // Country station: we clamber down.  // // Th
and back.  // // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // // First we go to the front to see // // the e
and black.  // // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // // of ci
ping jack.  // // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // //
ng, black.  // // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // // Telephone wires through the pane // // loop
/ // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // // Country station: we clamber down.  // // The whistle bl
/ // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // // First we go to the front to see // // the engine, wheel
/ // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // // of city station,
/ // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // // We jump at a
/ // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // // Telephone wires through the pane // // loop lazily alon
riangles // // of city herbage in city
clag // // —a handful of trees, bulbs // // and other plants.  // //
lick-clack.  // // Country station: we
clamber down.  // // The whistle blows, the train moves on, // // the
Janet’s Foss.  // // Upstream again to
clamber Gordale Scar // // and rest, and breathe some more the cool c
two angled branches, reached // // by
clambering the branches by the trunk // // or (better) by the real ro
eft // // the Cape Cod house’s painted
clapboard side.  // // At centre, as if growing from the clapboards, /
/ // At centre, as if growing from the
clapboards , // // but grander far, a corniced window bay // // in da
lds her stare?  // // Or is it just the
clarity of light, the glowing // // grass and trees outside her windo
s’ time, these two will meet // // and
clash — and I’m to be the battle ground.  // // The field is ready now
Way-hay, blow us away // // The sails
clatter as we roll // // Give me some wind to blow us away // // Hor
ach?  // // Time’s warring chariots can
clatter by— // // we have the earth, the water and the sky.  // //
re!  // // A spoon to the floor— // //
clatter !  // // No!  Another more!  // // This stuff to the floor— //
h echoed refrain // // in the rhythmic
clattering noise of the train.  // // Childhood journeys by rail come
rougher softness, // // but with sharp
claws and barbs, // // fastens itself inside.  // // Movement is fast
F.B.L // // london
clay , blackened, arsenic // // railings, pointing, down pipe, clunch,
une // // it turns out she has feet of
clay .  // // On the continent // // My control is as strong as can be
// // Judith, artist, // // models in
clay or plaster, // // casts in plaster or cement or resin, // // dr
coy sale.  // // Aye, cops lap // // a
clay pope’s // // soapy place.  // // So apply, ace: // // scope a p
ing garden.  Send a letter.  // // Fresh
clay tablet, stylus, scribe.  // // Entrust to messenger.  // // I lov
beaten path // // Between two beds of
clean -raked earth // // Where tender shoots may venture forth // //
// Present for C—book?  // // Coat to
cleaners // // Pay newsagent // // Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W s
a darker paint, made by a house-painter
cleaning his brush after painting some woodwork.  Judith sees somethin
ve a whim // // to build a fine bridge
clear across a great river, where // // trees, grass and flowers can
n // // is low ahead of us, the sky is
clear .  // // Across the wood, onto the beach.  We hear // // the gul
nd rest, and breathe some more the cool
clear air.  // // Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // // a ge
ots off, // // dip our feet into water
clear and achingly cold, // // and dry them on warm rock.  // //
ing gently side by side, // // through
clear and cool and quiet evening stillness // // on evening tide.  //
crust.  The next two months // // are
clear and fine and bitter cold.  // // Every step, // // your foot up
so needs some zeta factor // // and my
clear beta, gamma, delta connection // // is screwed up by a zeta fac
cars // // to prove it.  // // The all-
clear // // // Blitz.  The heavy bombers, lighter now, // // are dr
e wind to blow us away // // Horizon’s
clear from end to end // // Way-hay, blow us away // // No hope of w
iced window bay // // in darker wood. 
Clear morning sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse inside.  A wom
age: // // a plastic chest with small,
clear plastic drawers // // —unlabelled, but the nuts and bolts and w
// // Yesterday I was told: it looks
clear .  // // So life should now appear // // as it did a month gone,
purple moor // // green forest // //
clear stream // // grey mountain // // jagged mountain // // choppy
be unmasked.  // // It’s becoming quite
clear that the hour // // for soft pussy-footing is past.  // // It c
// mud.  // // Sonnet // // Cold and
clear .  The tide runs out, the creek // // is draining back again tow
Shore // // Nonnet // // Cold and
clear .  The tide runs out, the creek // // is draining back towards t
, beta, gamma, delta.  // // The way is
clear .  This formulation // // both lays the problem out and then rev
// // through still, warm air, // //
clear to my vantage point on higher ground.  // // Voices far across t
y generations of kitchen knives.  // //
Clearance time.  What can I possibly salvage // // from all this?  //
Boxing Day.  // // The country road not
cleared for days // // —and then of course it snows again.  // // One
with mu and lambda.  // // I can’t see
clearly :  I’ll need to wander // // some way in that direction to det
ecall.  Nor can I now // // picture it
clearly .  So why does it come to my mind?  // // A couple of reasons. 
Clerihews // // Five politicians…  // // Margaret Thatcher // // obs
ack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // //
ack: // // the bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // // At night, the glow and flying sparks.  // // Grass
les at the back.  // // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // //
along the track: // // the bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // // At night, the glow and flying sparks. 
the next track.  // // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // // Country station: we clamber down.  //
there and back.  // // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // // First we go to the front to see // //
burnt and black.  // // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // //
a jumping jack.  // // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  /
steaming, black.  // // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // // Telephone wires through the pane // /
ack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // // Country station: we clamber down.  // // The whis
ack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // // First we go to the front to see // // the engine,
ack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // // of city sta
ack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // // We jum
ack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // // Telephone wires through the pane // // loop lazil
// Laptop, plug in power socket.  // //
Click to send.  // // I love you.  // //
e back // // to my memory, patterns of
clickety -clack.  // // But that was then.  Now the rail joints are wel
he sandy/grassy bank that is // // the
cliff .  A narrow sandy beach past which // // the falling tide reveal
// and strews them downwind.  // // The
cliff // // is of course ephemeral, built // // not only on, but of,
tide is high enough) // // as far the
cliff .  The wind // // whips the spume // // into irregular clots, p
creek.  On the other bank // // a mud
cliff , undercut and crumbling in places, // // crested by the fuzz of
// // even at high tide, with the mud
cliffs // // above my head, the rest of the marsh // // is out of si
t sections of bank // // leaving sharp
cliffs of compacted mud.  // // Evening.  A great dark cloud // // fi
under the sky.  // // Islands, beaches,
clifftops , creeks and inlets, // // rocky shorelines tumbling under t
r, streams and all.  // // A seven-mile
climb // // brings us to a hidden jewel lake, // // soup-spoon-shape
water and lunch in my haversack.  // //
Climb by the obvious route from the valley, with // // Derwent behind
// // tried to accept // // tried to
climb // // tried to find // // tried to forget // // tried to hear
ted trunk is hollow through, and can be
climbed // // inside) mark out the sandy/grassy bank that is // // t
es and onto the fell side, still // //
climbing the contours and catching my breath again.  // // Skirting th
er!  Now, in a stranger place, a colder
clime , // // with no arms, one leg, no tail, but raised high, // //
on the wall, // // wrestling figures,
clinched before a fall; // // Lutteurs—they are two, and now are one:
adget pings // // go away // // sleep
clings // // break of day // // brighter now // // here to stay //
t in again.  // // Beards may need some
clipping , shortening // // left alone they easily win—but // // ther
// // An electric fan.  The dial of a
clock .  Another dial, // // from a stand-on weight scale.  A device /
A
cloppy sea // // Lose pay cap, // // O palace spy.  // // Lay pop ca
, at // // what has come about, but to
close // // an open sore, renew our sense of // // time, rebuild the
/ // almost pole to almost pole // //
close as you can.  // // Apple, pear: // // pole-to-pole // // in ha
nets overhead // // as well as actions
close at hand // // (the apple said), // // to comprehend the univer
ds scud past, // // maybe catch // //
close enough to make you jump, or far away, // // the thud as one mor
// high mountain // // wide sea // //
close forest // // by lake and stream // // by forest and moor // /
Sherlock Road; Sherlock Court; Sherlock
Close // // houses; yards; curbs // // One to fifty:  Ground floor //
lpture in the Hirschhorn in Washington,
close to a version of Rodin’s Balzac, and called “Post-Balzac”.  It is
books that line the shelves, // // and
close to home as well: they too can be // // as dumb as all of us, th
hing favours at each turn.  // // (Stay
close to the carved bank // // for the deeper channel.) // // In the
the universe; // // the restaurant has
closed , // // and that was the last syllabub of recorded time.  // //
ke sure that the lid is properly firmly
closed . // // Place the kettle on the cordless base making
webs among the undergrowth.  // // Look
closely : precise angular spirals // // strung around precise radial
ing our roll, // // getting higher and
closer .  // // And the noise.  // // A few ranks ahead, I see them //
across the bank // // lets me get much
closer // // before giving me an earful.  // // To my left, the forag
als down there now.  // // Let’s have a
closer look at this one here, // // with a bar across.  Not quite the
/ // battening down the hatches // //
closing down the argument // // shutting down the computer // // tea
te’s locks, nancy’s blushes // // drop
cloth , slipper satin, worsted // // dimity, blazer, babouche // // b
nd cupboards.  // // Chair with pile of
clothes .  // // Feel something…  // // Shit!  The wrong trousers!  //
must get on // // first scratch // //
clothes on // // spell broken // // sleep gone // // in motion //
/ whips the spume // // into irregular
clots , picks them up, // // and strews them downwind.  // // The clif
cted mud.  // // Evening.  A great dark
cloud // // fire-edged, blots out the setting sun.  // // Later, the
// more days of sun or rain or passing
cloud // // more meetings with old friends // // more talks, more si
ain // // shine or rain // // wind or
cloud // // take train // // whether vain // // same old // // sha
s and the rooftops, // // rushing wild
clouds across the sky, // // lying abed beneath the cobwebbed rafters
out the setting sun.  // // Later, the
clouds amass: // // watch now: if you blink you will miss // // the
// // the day begins to go // // the
clouds are low and spitting rain.  // // The light is dimming now.  //
ind and the rain // // the sun and the
clouds by day, // // the stars and the darkness by night, // // the
// the apple clusters sway, // // the
clouds scud past, // // maybe catch // // close enough to make you j
// flooring nails, staples, cuphooks,
clouts // // masonry nails, screw-eyes, picture hooks // // wallplug
s.  A copper beech // // stands out, a
clump of pears whose fruit // // is hard as stone.  (But when stewed
cstasy of fumbling, // // building the
clumsy barriers just in time // // to keep the carriers of plague at
c // // railings, pointing, down pipe,
clunch , setting plaster // // string, cord, matchstick, tallow, vardo
as you reach past to pilfer // // the
clusters beyond, adding scratches // // to the stains already coverin
ugh the orchard, watch // // the apple
clusters sway, // // the clouds scud past, // // maybe catch // //
serving any useful purpose.  // // The
clutter covering the remainder of the bench // // is piled uncontaine
/ After the engine’s noisy roar, // //
coaches follow along the track: // // the bogeys go: click-clack cli
Coast to
coast // // dark forest // // flashing stream // // bright sea //
to Hunmanby on the north-east Yorkshire
coast // // for the requisite square-bashing.  And then when he ships
f home // // here on the north Norfolk
coast .  // // The wonder is that you can still laugh.  // //
Coast to coast // // dark forest // // flashing stream // // bright
, once.  If you follow the west-to-east
coast -to-coast walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunburnt on the rig
If you follow the west-to-east coast-to-
coast walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunburnt on the right side o
tion // // shifts the sand, carves the
coastline // // into something new // //
// at your sleeve, at the tails of your
coat , // // and sometimes at the bare flesh of // // the back of you
fruit // // Present for C—book?  // //
Coat to cleaners // // Pay newsagent // // Bulbs for kitchen lights—
els by local train to Ghent: canals and
cobbled streets // // and beer and chocolate shops // // and churche
the sky, // // lying abed beneath the
cobwebbed rafters, // // warm and dry.  // // On waters of the creek
Don’t be silly, that’s … omigod, it’s a
cockroach !  Help!  Help!  // //
slides or toothpowder, tins // // for
cocoa or throat lozenges or metal polish, // // jars for all sorts of
right.  And rising left // // the Cape
Cod house’s painted clapboard side.  // // At centre, as if growing fr
Cape
Cod Morning // // Almost accidental, but carefully composed: // // t
, // // in this // // extended // //
coda to our past // // good lives, the rainbow spans the sky.  // //
es, expeditions // // more books, more
coffee cups // // more tragedies, comedies, histories // // more sha
A bartender bent to work; // // chrome
coffee machines.  // // At the bar three people sit // // all six eye
d, // // another creature wakes; great
cogwheels grind.  // // They peer, they scan, they scrape, they test,
no fire and no gold, // // no gems nor
coins nor jewels; just the old // // and weathered hills, created by
Shore // // Nonnet // //
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the creek // // is draining back
hining // // mud.  // // Sonnet // //
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the creek // // is draining back
our feet into water clear and achingly
cold , // // and dry them on warm rock.  // //
“Now that I’m old, // // I do feel the
cold — // // and my breathing is rather uncertain.”  // //
came down, // // expecting to find it
cold , but every day // // the embers beneath the ash were darkly glow
hs // // are clear and fine and bitter
cold .  // // Every step, // // your foot upon the crust, you think //
hort, // // patch pockets (useless for
cold hands), // // thick felted wool, a monk-like hood— // // and wi
, // // with crescent moon // // from
cold immune.  // // Let snow lie, // // it’s Jan, not June.  // // A
has warmed the room // // against the
cold outside.  // // (But that was forty years ago // // —these days
he line till you squint // // with the
cold seeping into each joint, // // it must be insane // // to expec
// // Cambridge, circa 1966 // // One
cold winter’s afternoon // // we walk to the edge of town and on //
No matter!  Now, in a stranger place, a
colder clime, // // with no arms, one leg, no tail, but raised high,
hoven string quartet.  // // Afterwards
Colin and I go down to the basement // // —the real crematorium— //
ring light.  // // Nearly-five-year-old
Colin // // needed a lavatory, and I had to leave the fire for a whil
sounded.  // // The last post has been
collected .  // // The last word has been had.  // // Nothing remains /
ók and Frank Bridge // // are still at
college // // Sergei Prokofiev and Carl Orf // // still at school //
paths // // One to two thousand:  Jesus
College // // The Chimney; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // // courts; stai
// (Linnean Society 1904, // // Girton
College 1913).  // // The Reigate lab, of course // // has a source /
inoids // // ‡ by means of reactors or
colliders or other toys // //
ething is growing at the tail end of my
colon : // // probably malignant.  // // ‘Malignant’ seems too strong
long and barbed, // // reaching out to
colonise the heath, // // at war with the bracken.  // // No fruit he
nescent airs // // moistening the many-
coloured earths.  // // In forests and in open spaces // // there are
// Transform the coloured flower into
coloured flesh // // and hide a secret inside.  // // Feel the air.  T
rays and the air.  // // Transform the
coloured flower into coloured flesh // // and hide a secret inside.  /
spring rain.  Throw open // // the fire-
coloured temptations, welcome in // // the roaming bees.  // // Feel
Colourless green ideas found sleeping furiously // // // The garlic
tive will // // live on long after his
colours have gone; // // learning his lesson, the great Michelangelo
ies, histories // // more shapes, more
colours , more darknesses // // more storms, gales, lightning bolts //
ive // // plummett // // Note:  Fifty
colours of Farrow & Ball // //
umn hues, or shades of grey— // // the
colours that I saw last night // // just slipped away.  // // Through
bout // // a century and a half before
Columbus .  // // He is a leader of Flemish weavers, pointing the rest
urposeful.  // // We form into rows and
columns across the deep.  // // Without knowing what it is, // // we
/ Philosophies are aired, // // temple
columns spaced, // // lightning rods earthed.  // // On the dark side
d espy a fair pretty maid // // with a
comb and a glass in her hand.  // // See the pretty girl in that mirro
ivation // // underneath their surface
combinations .  // // Now Brin and Page build index tabulations // //
at fate, at chance, at // // what has
come about, but to close // // an open sore, renew our sense of // /
his proper name of Gouriet) // // had
come as a child sixty-odd years before // // (well before the start o
uth wind today.  So the breakers // //
come at an angle, sweep // // along the beach.  Each // // finds its
rain.  // // Childhood journeys by rail
come back // // to my memory, patterns of clickety-clack.  // // But
in a verse.  // // But now the dawn has
come , it does not pass, // // this figment of my own imagination.  //
nce to my tune, // // I’ll lead.”  But
come June // // it turns out she has feet of clay.  // // On the cont
Probably not until well after dark has
come .  // // Should I start crawling the miles remaining, or // // sh
dream in which I’m caught // // Which,
come the dawn, will surely quickly pass.  // // I’d paint it for you i
// jump to join in, but needs time to
come through.  // // I’ll give it some taxpayer funding, and get old s
// picture it clearly.  So why does it
come to my mind?  // // A couple of reasons.  One, that it had to be b
igans) // // later to enrol, when they
come to Paris // // Manuel de Falla and Igor Stravinsky.  // // A tur
more coffee cups // // more tragedies,
comedies , histories // // more shapes, more colours, more darknesses
s that will never show a lass // // As
comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!) // // I am not crue
rbyshire moors.  // // But the next war
comes , and D is now called up.  // // First to Hunmanby on the north-e
to final oblivion— // // when the time
comes , I might add, not just yet.  // //
, though Suliman’s pilaf // // is real
comfort food.  But comfort me not // // with apples, nor with pilaf. 
threatening // // keep drafts out and
comfort in—but // // there was an old man called Michael Finnegan.  //
pilaf // // is real comfort food.  But
comfort me not // // with apples, nor with pilaf.  I can’t speak //
.  // // But stay me not with them, nor
comfort me // // with apples, for I am well of love.  // // The usual
l of love.  // // Apples may perhaps be
comforting // // as any fruit, though Suliman’s pilaf // // is real
eyond a bad joke.  // // Destroying our
comfort’s as rotten // // as stealing a library book.  // // Five of
t and about, and evermore // // voices
coming from the room next door.  // // For and against, and more, agai
cophony.  // // Dialectic // // Voices
coming from the room next door: // // thesis and antithesis, debate /
all—a synthesis can wait.  // // Voices
coming from the room next door:  // // Thesis and Antithesis debate.  /
// New papyrus, brush and ink.  // //
Command a messenger.  // // I love you.  // // Draughty hall.  Now send
blime.  // // Must just ignore the shop-
committed crime, // // the muzakal banality which stings.  // // Even
thread, // // would we have found some
common course, // // or bend or hitch or bead?  // // Some earlier oc
of bank // // leaving sharp cliffs of
compacted mud.  // // Evening.  A great dark cloud // // fire-edged,
the blue and gold livery // // of the
Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits // // et des Grands Express
or city streets— // // and who were my
companions , pray?  // // Old friends, new friends did I meet?  // // I
rife: // // the different dittoes must
compete for life.  // // Another billion random changes: all // // —o
edge the oyster-catchers, gulls // //
compete for surface scraps.  The beach is good // // for all.  The re
round and about, under and over.  // //
Complete another ring.  // // Sleep.  // //
.  The one behind // // will finish me
completely // // and for ever.  // //
nto harbour.  My // // family playing,
completely oblivious.  // //
her consigned to the flames.  // // (I
completely understand why people have // // funeral pyres.) Later we
the saltmarsh, the currents // // are
complex but have the same effect.  // // On a spring high tide, I woul
// // now half-forgotten.  Electrical
components .  // // A pair of cast-iron supports for an old // // high
// // Almost accidental, but carefully
composed : // // the sky behind the trees beyond the meadow, // // ta
hand // // (the apple said), // // to
comprehend the universe // // both in the large and in the small, //
n the argument // // shutting down the
computer // // tearing down the barriers // // cutting down the rose
Story // // —Tell me.  // // —I am
conceived by the wind, the wild wind // // and borne on the blue ocea
// // they raised the ramparts: giant
concrete blocks // // on piles all along the shingle beach.  // // Th
toggles, loops of string.  // // I must
confess to having owned // // long long ago, that icon of // // a ti
they choose to use // // to inform or
confuse , // // elate or validate or grieve— // // these words live. 
e found.  // // Waiting for declension,
conjugation , // // other morphologic variations, // // awaiting Dr J
ook, the here and now dispel // // and
conjure me to quite a different place.  // // Jump willing into every
ns of my mind.  // // And in my mind it
conjures up a vision // // of the image that inspired it: a scatterin
ches, lights, buzzers, plugs // // and
connecting leads.  Another pair // // of brackets, this time for a wo
ution.  // // All we need to do is make
connection // // alpha to beta using this equation, // // then follo
// // and my clear beta, gamma, delta
connection // // is screwed up by a zeta factor // // in ways that I
lations, // // find their denotations,
connotations .  // // Roget charted their associations.  // // Zipf was
ed thorns, // // seeking new ground to
conquer .  // // Spiders’ webs among the undergrowth.  // // Look close
o answerless.  // // Lone expedition to
conquer the mountaintop.  // // Bottle of water and lunch in my havers
/ Just imagine the grief // // and the
consequence if // // it had been a pineapple instead.  // //
s of zeta // // by striking gamma from
consideration // // and making an approximate relation // // by tyin
moments to remember: // // they can be
consigned to passing time.  // // For all the real and everlasting mom
he real crematorium— // // and see her
consigned to the flames.  // // (I completely understand why people ha
/ // Turns out† that the seventh layer
consists mostly of ones that do not exist // // but need‡ to be synth
ings: // // the steps which, added up,
construct // // my life.  // // Most of the steps are small, // // f
abandoned projects, // // pieces half-
constructed or half-deconstructed, // // for some architectural or me
g // // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s
contact maybe // // Ring M about Xmas // // Ring Tony D about works
ntervals along the south horizon // //
container ships in stately progress pass // // destined for Harwich o
// Some of the contents and all of the
containers // // once had other uses.  The plastic boxes // // were
heds) // // on the grove’s outer edge,
contains our own // // tree-house, a canted deck of ancient planks, /
/ all six eyes lowered // // in silent
contemplation .  // // The rest of the world is dark.  // //
s far as the window.  // // Some of the
contents and all of the containers // // once had other uses.  The pl
out she has feet of clay.  // // On the
continent // // My control is as strong as can be // // and stable—t
rgeons trying to cut us off // // from
continental flow // // seem more like butchers working rough.  // //
elded, and the dominant sound // // is
continuous and high-pitched.  The borders we cross are eastward:  // /
// // finite but unbounded space-time
continuum // // —cool!  // // There are some lovely spirals down ther
he fell side, still // // climbing the
contours and catching my breath again.  // // Skirting the back of the
er crashing down // // to redefine the
contours of the shore.  // // Around the river mouth the tides run str
pping up the tank // // tearing up the
contract // // pulling up the weeds // // picking up the pieces //
the end, it was the railway // // that
contrived to send us on our way.  // // British Rail announced that it
clay.  // // On the continent // // My
control is as strong as can be // // and stable—they will make for me
/ // in ways that I can neither // //
control nor understand. // // 3 sideways: perspiration // // Yet he
elderland; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen // //
conurbations ; drained land // // One to three hundred and sixteen tho
amily stir-fries four // // Butterfish
cooked to no sauce.  // // Young flourishing bowl bowl shrimp // // D
side by side, // // through clear and
cool and quiet evening stillness // // on evening tide.  // // Decisi
// and rest, and breathe some more the
cool clear air.  // // Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // //
// reflected in inky water, // // the
cool night air // // slows down time.  // // Now is the time // // t
us away // // Now sluice the decks to
cool the wood // // Way-hay, blow us away // // And pour a bucket on
unbounded space-time continuum // // —
cool !  // // There are some lovely spirals down there now.  // // Let’
eturn // // to the dry ground.  Let the
cooling dark // // settle around and about, under and over.  // // Co
Orf // // still at school // // Aaron
Copland and Kurt Weill // // in their cots // // William Walton not
ps // // identify across the years.  A
copper beech // // stands out, a clump of pears whose fruit // // is
Apple // // app, coy sale.  // // Aye,
cops lap // // a clay pope’s // // soapy place.  // // So apply, ace
om and fade, movements // // are born,
copulate and die.  // // But for the real turn, the cataclysm // // w
spy.  // // Lay pop case // // plea as
copy .  // // Ape calypso // // place, so pay // // a cosy Apple //
clunch, setting plaster // // string,
cord , matchstick, tallow, vardo // // cromarty, ringwold or savage gr
// // Place the kettle on the
cordless base making sure it is positioned correctly. // //
sing your Kettle // // Place the
cordless base on a level firm surface. // // Where ever po
// in half then quarters // // cut the
core from each.  // // But no, for once // // cut an apple // // equ
pole-to-pole // // scoop out the mushy
core .  // // Mango: // // find the flat sides of the stone // // sli
Cores // // Cut a kiwi // // equatorially: // // no pips, no stone.
dgerow, the field, the rapeseed and the
corn .  // // The five-bar gate, the muddy track on the tarmac road.  //
lpoint pen.  // // Find a stamp, street-
corner box.  // // I love you.  // // Wi-fi café.  Send a letter.  // /
ut from my bed I looked out on // // a
corner of a tree-bordered square.  // // The second had one window, ra
Beds and trees and windows // // A
corner of a tree-bordered square // // trees around the edges of a fi
door.  // // That tiny movement in the
corner ?  The hem of an emerging apparition?  // // Don’t be silly, tha
// // The eye of the little god, four
cornered .  // // Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.  // // O
s aglow.  // // Winds moaning round the
corners and the rooftops, // // rushing wild clouds across the sky, /
ities flourish and decay.  In forgotten
corners , // // artists create and sometimes destroy.  Did I really //
e clapboards, // // but grander far, a
corniced window bay // // in darker wood.  Clear morning sunlight fil
n a lean-to out the back.  // // On the
cornices // // a hundred years of whitewash.  // // We wire from scra
dless base making sure it is positioned
correctly . // // Plug in and switch on at the wall socket.
// “Was it there?  // // It was in the
corresponding pocket of the trousers which he had worn on the day but
lipped away.  // // Through passages or
corridors // // light-footed did I make my way?  // // Across what ca
e calypso // // place, so pay // // a
cosy Apple // // app, coy sale.  // // Aye, cops lap // // a clay po
Copland and Kurt Weill // // in their
cots // // William Walton not yet born.  // // But Maurice Ravel has
uilt like the house // // of weathered
Cotswold stone.  // // The box and holly // // were magnificent, but
On Skiddaw // // Holiday
cottage , the edge of the Lake District— // // family wanting to rest
// is worth another try.  A son.  // //
Council house the other side of Sheffield.  // // Polish husband trans
Don’t
count your chickens // // … but if the chicken // // is just the egg
e watered.  // // Seasons and years are
counted and timed.  // // Philosophies are aired, // // temple column
cushions are missing.  // // How can we
counter -attack?  // // Perhaps if we asked him politely // // he’d re
Newton’s
counterfactuals // // // // You all know the story that once // //
itself // // rich rediscovering Bach’s
counterpoint — // // frescos are fragile, but Piero’s perspective will
as well.  // // But we shall leave such
counterpoints behind us: // // time will tell.  // // Those are not t
Ninety-six and
counting // // How little I really know of your life!  // // From the
I should // // not be doing // // is
counting // // my eggs.  // //
ted their associations.  // // Zipf was
counting their instantiations, // // ranking, taking logs and drawing
on two hundred and fifty thousand:  Low
Countries // // Gelderland; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen // // conurbations
trova; Kirgiz Step; Karakoram Ra // //
countries ; seas // // One to ten million:  Middle East // // Bam Pos
// // That book will tales of distant
countries tell // // or take you on a voyage through deepest space:  /
See this: // // the large, dilapidated
country house // // that is my mother’s next big venture after // //
ght.  // // But through this land, this
country I must go— // // I’d paint it for you if I had the art // //
s // // just slipped away.  // // What
country lanes or city streets— // // and who were my companions, pray
year it snows on Boxing Day.  // // The
country road not cleared for days // // —and then of course it snows
ys go: click-clack click-clack.  // //
Country station: we clamber down.  // // The whistle blows, the train
ve; // // It’s through this land, this
country that I go.  // // It’s likely different from the one you know:
see in lines across // // the Suffolk
countryside , each tall bare trunk // // gnarled and twisted by the wi
o why does it come to my mind?  // // A
couple of reasons.  One, that it had to be bolted // // down to the f
/ // not as in // // screwing up your
courage // // putting up resistance // // throwing up earthworks //
drag us // // kicking and screaming of
course // // but maybe also wailing and gnashing our teeth // // int
t at least.  // // Odysseus' sirens, of
course // // can offer no such message.  Theirs // // is a one-way i
downwind.  // // The cliff // // is of
course ephemeral, built // // not only on, but of, // // sand.  All
force // // beyond imagination; and of
course // // extracted from my fickle memory— // // elusive and illu
llege 1913).  // // The Reigate lab, of
course // // has a source // // of pure water: a still.  // // Gard
ot cleared for days // // —and then of
course it snows again.  // // One afternoon for one brief hour // //
ll’s fair in gloves and war, though the
course of true gloves never did run smooth.  No glove lost.  // // We
// // would we have found some common
course , // // or bend or hitch or bead?  // // Some earlier occasion
fine plan.  // // We also need money—of
course private finance will // // jump to join in, but needs time to
// BC (Before Capricorn).  // // But of
course that is not so.  // // Seen from here, the future is changed //
vaguely oriental.  // // Since then, of
course , the bracken // // has been ploughed, the edges fenced, the ho
Quintet // // the slow movement is of
course the second.  // // Of course we should move slowly for some sec
ment is of course the second.  // // Of
course we should move slowly for some seconds.  // // No, more than th
The apple said // // // // Of
course we’d like to understand // // the stars and planets overhead /
hrough rocks with rainbow spray, // //
coursing the straits and the hollows, // // meandering across meadows
the tent next door, // // a motorcycle
coursing up the lane.  // // Night-time noises permeate the air // //
ock plan // // Sherlock Road; Sherlock
Court ; Sherlock Close // // houses; yards; curbs // // One to fifty:
Chimney; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // //
courts ; staircases; playing fields // // One to five hundred:  Block p
/ Then back to skirt the edge of Malham
Cove , // // with fields below and limestone crags above; // // desce
Covehithe , Suffolk // // South wind today.  So the breakers // // co
ond the fir-trees lies // // a bracken-
covered heath.  The summer fronds // // rise far above our heads.  In
e, // // soup-spoon-shaped, still half-
covered // // in slowly melting ice.  On the far side // // the stee
On the far side // // the steep snow-
covered slopes rise up // // to rampart rock walls, knife-edge agains
l, // // the woven patterns traced and
covered // // the world with skeins of wool.  // // And as we lived a
any useful purpose.  // // The clutter
covering the remainder of the bench // // is piled uncontained and un
scratches // // to the stains already
covering your fingers // // and your palms.  Sometimes you must stop
the summer’s brown bracken // // that
covers the heath.  // // On magic carpet // // the Prince of Crim Tar
ring.  A few // // feet away, a sheep,
cowering // // —and a lamb, sensing danger // // suckling.  // // On
so pay // // a cosy Apple // // app,
coy sale.  // // Aye, cops lap // // a clay pope’s // // soapy place
croaker with no result.  // // Fragile
crab of incense taste mushroom // // Do the black boiler hair belly. 
// // I look into the mirror, but it’s
cracked // // And won’t be fixed and always did refract // // The on
web and floated wide; // // The mirror
crack’d from side to side.  // // I look into the mirror, but it’s cra
t a sideshow: all the while // // the
crafty sea is also digging down // // beneath the piles.  Then one st
s growth, // // looks like a great sea-
crag in miniature, // // a tumbling precipice of rock—or maybe ice //
// // with fields below and limestone
crags above; // // descend the steps to reach the valley floor— // /
will be more.  // // More hills, dales,
crags , beaches // // more boat or cycle rides // // more walks, more
sand:  Jesus College // // The Chimney;
Cranmer Room; Café Bar // // courts; staircases; playing fields // /
e air // // (or so it seems to me), to
crash back down— // // you must be nimble.  // // Later we discover /
m // // brings wild mountains of water
crashing down // // to redefine the contours of the shore.  // // Aro
, up, turning over // // and hear them
crashing down.  // // What is this cataclysm?  // // Now the one just
/ Already I am toppling over him // //
crashing , splitting, breaking.  // // I am lost.  The one behind // /
just around the final bend) // // this
craven kraken creeps, and slumbers not: // // a stealth invasion’s ge
er dark has come.  // // Should I start
crawling the miles remaining, or // // should I stay put in the hope
// // of all the words their spiders’
crawls can find.  // // — // // A writer read, a speaker heard, // /
dness on tiny softness.  // // Softness
crawls over sand and rock // // in filtered blue light, // // carryi
boughs reaching // // for the ground,
creaking // // under the weight.  // // Wander through the orchard, w
A trifle(with double
cream ) // // // // Dr Foster went to Gloucester // // for a summer
.  In forgotten corners, // // artists
create and sometimes destroy.  Did I really // // spring from the han
ust the old // // and weathered hills,
created by some force // // beyond imagination; and of course // //
celebration—every line // // the Bard
created for the stage // // by the best actors of the age.  // // Tha
face and for far around, // // another
creature wakes; great cogwheels grind.  // // They peer, they scan, th
Tidesong // // The tide is out, the
creek a gentle trickle // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // the
/ // the dunes on the beach across the
creek // // and had a go at East Hills.  // // A once in a century st
/ warm and dry.  // // On waters of the
creek as smooth as satin, // // drifting or paddling gently side by s
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the
creek // // is draining back again towards the sea.  // // Along the
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the
creek // // is draining back towards the sea.  // // Along the margin
Creek mud // // As I drift on mirror water, following the bend, // /
h bank of mud // // slopes up from the
creek .  On the other bank // // a mud cliff, undercut and crumbling i
ky.  // // Islands, beaches, clifftops,
creeks and inlets, // // rocky shorelines tumbling under the sky.  //
lines.  // // Across the channel, tidal
creeks // // meandering through the marsh // // carve out sections o
he deeper channel.) // // In the tidal
creeks that snake // // across the saltmarsh, the currents // // are
apart // // flames leap // // flames
creep // // growing bright // // flames leap // // sparks take flig
e apart // // eyes smart // // flames
creep // // move apart // // flames leap // // flames creep // //
// we wander, hacking out our paths, or
creeping through, // // maybe chancing on a hidden hollow which // /
e final bend) // // this craven kraken
creeps , and slumbers not: // // a stealth invasion’s getting off the
o down to the basement // // —the real
crematorium — // // and see her consigned to the flames.  // // (I com
.) // // Standing around the Cambridge
crematorium , // // dressed for the occasion, // // we read the flowe
nother twenty one years, // // another
crematorium .  // // This time Judith has chosen the music, // // a Be
The moon in June // // A
crescent moon, // // a winter sky.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // //
alloon, // // way up high, // // with
crescent moon // // from cold immune.  // // Let snow lie, // // it’
home soon // // warm and dry.  // // A
crescent moon.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // //
n, // // the deep blue sky.  // // The
crescent moon // // some cryptic rune.  // // The senses fly.  // //
ndercut and crumbling in places, // //
crested by the fuzz of last year’s growth, // // looks like a great s
.  // // Gathered round about, a motley
crew // // of categories in boxes, jars and tins: // // the larger b
// On magic carpet // // the Prince of
Crim Tartary // // flies into the night.  // // The paraffin stove //
// Must just ignore the shop-committed
crime , // // the muzakal banality which stings.  // // Even I, atheis
wn, not up—as in // // facing down the
crisis // // pinning down the problem // // throwing down the gauntl
’s of seafood in monolith // // Do the
crispy bean curd of boiler, // // Blow up a little croaker with no re
aw; but I saw him see // // across the
criss -cross checks and grids and patterned lattices of life // // thr
e; // // gives me siblings to chase or
criss -cross // // over and under // // as we skip on the backs of th
, yes.  In all the arts // // currents
criss -cross, revolutions // // blossom and fade, movements // // are
// // or long since stripped of bark,
criss -cross // // the forest floor, streams and all.  // // A seven-m
curd of boiler, // // Blow up a little
croaker with no result.  // // Fragile crab of incense taste mushroom
cord, matchstick, tallow, vardo // //
cromarty , ringwold or savage ground // // smoked trout, wevet, bone,
acken, the moss, the lichen, // // the
cropped grass, the sheep- and rabbit-droppings, // // the bare rocks
/ // Pots are thrown and fired, // //
crops are watered.  // // Seasons and years are counted and timed.  //
che, // // fall through a wormhole, or
cross a mountain range?  // // Did I march towards my fate, // // or
nuous and high-pitched.  The borders we
cross are eastward: // // under the channel and then from France to B
t I saw him see // // across the criss-
cross checks and grids and patterned lattices of life // // through g
// // as ugly.  No such thought would
cross my five- // // or eight- or ten-year-old imagination.  // // It
// gives me siblings to chase or criss-
cross // // over and under // // as we skip on the backs of the olde
In all the arts // // currents criss-
cross , revolutions // // blossom and fade, movements // // are born,
/ or long since stripped of bark, criss-
cross // // the forest floor, streams and all.  // // A seven-mile cl
the space // // and the time // // to
cross the waters, // // explore the earth, // // and send signal fir
ine months gone, // // when both lines
crossed an edge, // // and two seemed to twist into one, // // right
on when // // our life-lines must have
crossed , // // some passing chance of might-have-been, // // a diffe
// the source of danger // // a wolf
crouches // // his senses tingling, too.  // // Around them, the flow
mber day, the river’s edge, // // with
crowds of people milling all around, // // walking and talking and st
old man called Michael Finnegan— // //
crowds stopped by his strange shenanigan // // called out all their k
he wind, supports // // a wild, tufted
crown —quite unlike // // the planted forest, serried ranks of Christm
// // Now it happens my old friend is
crowned mayor of London, he // // goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad
is the fairest of them all?  // // (The
cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass // // As comely or as
young as what she was!) // // I am not
cruel , only truthful— // // The eye of the little god, four cornered.
r bank // // a mud cliff, undercut and
crumbling in places, // // crested by the fuzz of last year’s growth,
er.  The frost returns // // to make a
crust .  The next two months // // are clear and fine and bitter cold.
/ Every step, // // your foot upon the
crust , you think // // ‘This time, it will hold my weight.’  // // Bu
y.  // // The crescent moon // // some
cryptic rune.  // // The senses fly.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // //
really hard to know.  // // We have no
crystal ball, no glass.  // // The light has all gone, now.  // //
wsagent // // Bulbs for kitchen lights—
CS 60W screw???—check first // // Cash m/c // // Washing // // Plan
// The century turns.  // // Right on
cue , Queen Victoria dies.  // // (Next time around, in the digital era
fall drew blood.  // // No such obvious
culprit here, // // except for age, pure and simple.  No rage— // //
of our cushions are missing.  // // The
culprit must now be unmasked.  // // It’s becoming quite clear that th
or fellow— // // the thief’s much too
cunning for that.  // // There’s only one possible answer: // // this
// // Bedroom again, more drawers and
cupboards .  // // Chair with pile of clothes.  // // Feel something…  /
g, by the door.  // // Tables, shelves,
cupboards , hooks, drawers.  // // Places I wouldn’t have put them.  //
ashers, // // flooring nails, staples,
cuphooks , clouts // // masonry nails, screw-eyes, picture hooks // /
editions // // more books, more coffee
cups // // more tragedies, comedies, histories // // more shapes, mo
me, the resolution lies // // in their
cups .  Thomas certainly did his level best // // to drink himself to
t; Sherlock Close // // houses; yards;
curbs // // One to fifty:  Ground floor // // Bedroom 2; Bathroom; Bi
d in monolith // // Do the crispy bean
curd of boiler, // // Blow up a little croaker with no result.  // //
on a bigger road.  The pavements // //
curl around, leaving two small raised triangles // // of city herbage
tter, scavenge—redshank, // // godwit,
curlew —long // // beaks probing deep // // beneath the // // shinin
r water, following the bend, // // the
curlew rises suddenly, // // screeching at my invasion of its space. 
walks, more bluebell woods // // more
curlews , more ragged, slanting lines of geese // // more travels, jou
/ // for all.  The redshanks, godwits,
curlews search // // for hidden treasure, long beaks buried full //
unfurls // // twigs catch // // smoke
curls // // flame unfurls // // smoke grows // // smoke curls // /
unfurls // // smoke grows // // smoke
curls // // smoke billows // // smoke grows // // eyes smart // //
marsh-birds calling // // against the
current pushing strongly townward.  // // Breath the scents the sea-wi
snake // // across the saltmarsh, the
currents // // are complex but have the same effect.  // // On a spri
// Well, yes.  In all the arts // //
currents criss-cross, revolutions // // blossom and fade, movements /
d without worry // // take the hottest
Currie .  // // Gordon Brown // // replaced his frown // // with a on
// of brackets, this time for a wooden
curtain pole, // // two and a half inches in diameter (the pole // /
same once more, // // voices from the
curtained bed next door.  // // Responses muted, though the sense is r
// In hospital // // Voices from the
curtained bed next door: // // someone else’s fragile life is there. 
le exuding care.  // // Voices from the
curtained bed next door: // // someone else’s fragile life is there. 
a messenger.  // // I love you.  // //
Curtained parlour.  Send a letter.  // // Scented paper, dip-pen, ink. 
// On one // // a stately ram, great
curved horns // // stands tense, alert and staring.  A few // // fee
ends great arcing shoots, // // strong
curves lined with jagged thorns, // // seeking new ground to conquer.
urban junction.  // // Narrow side road
curves to join // // a bend on a bigger road.  The pavements // // c
to ten thousand:  Cambridge // // Petty
Cury ; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // // streets; alleys; cycle paths /
t just fallen behind.  // // Two of our
cushions are missing // // from the sofa just outside the door.  // /
ling a library book.  // // Five of our
cushions are missing.  // // How can we counter-attack?  // // Perhaps
on’t lose any more.  // // Three of our
cushions are missing.  // // I don’t know quite what to say.  // // It
ng our cushions away // // Four of our
cushions are missing.  // // It’s getting beyond a bad joke.  // // De
ly put them all back.  // // Six of our
cushions are missing.  // // The culprit must now be unmasked.  // //
e some rotter // // who’s sneaking our
cushions away // // Four of our cushions are missing.  // // It’s get
e of our cushions // // // One of our
cushions is missing— // // I’m sure that there’s one I can’t find.  //
One of our
cushions // // // One of our cushions is missing— // // I’m sure th
Cores // //
Cut a kiwi // // equatorially: // // no pips, no stone.  // // Avoca
om each.  // // But no, for once // //
cut an apple // // equatorially // // see its secret: // // the app
s, with plywood strips // // carefully
cut and glued.  And labelled the front— // // Nails: tacks, panel pin
ck up a Brancusi stone head, or a small
cut brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it into our hands).  She i
is // // or antithesis.  // // Have to
cut straight to synthesis.  // // Tried // // hard // // to write //
ole // // in half then quarters // //
cut the core from each.  // // But no, for once // // cut an apple //
ling now.  // // The surgeons trying to
cut us off // // from continental flow // // seem more like butchers
he sees?  The frame // // he chose has
cut us off from looking at // // the focus of her gaze: does he not w
it into // // a perfect workbench—the
cuts and holes and scars // // from saws and hammers and screwed-on w
// // tearing down the barriers // //
cutting down the roses // // floating down the river // // whistling
; Pretoria Road // // streets; alleys;
cycle paths // // One to two thousand:  Jesus College // // The Chimn
les, crags, beaches // // more boat or
cycle rides // // more walks, more bluebell woods // // more curlews
to the spin // // part of its washing
cycle .  The other, the noise // // that it made as it spun, a rhythmi
r’s lost // // press two; or three for
cymbelline ; // // the merry wives of windsor, four; // // five othel