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.

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

H

In this bright green // // we wander,

hacking out our paths, or creeping through, // // maybe chancing on a

ste mushroom // // Do the black boiler

hair belly. // // The day boiler duck is miscellaneous. // //

Colourless green ideas found sleeping furiously

forty years ago // // —these days his

hair is white all through.) // // ‘Every mile is two’? no, hardly th

Walking in winter

ire brush // // of David’s thick black

hair , // // staying in place until at home // // the small gas fire

Walking in winter

ago. // // One of the legs had rotted

half away. // // But a new piece of four by two turned it into // //

// mollycoddle for one day // // throw

half away // // more flour, water, mix well // // mollycoddle for on

Ode to the yeast wind

// mollycoddle for one day // // throw

half away // // more flour, water, mix well // // mollycoddle for on

Ode to the yeast wind

// mollycoddle for one day // // throw

half away // // more flour, water, mix well // // mollycoddle for on

Ode to the yeast wind

o, this is about // // a century and a

half before Columbus. // // He is a leader of Flemish weavers, pointi

A poem for free

r life! // // From the moment almost a

half -century ago // // when I first met your daughter // // I have k

Ninety-six and counting

ed or abandoned projects, // // pieces

half -constructed or half-deconstructed, // // for some architectural

l lake, // // soup-spoon-shaped, still

half -covered // // in slowly melting ice. On the far side // // the

ects, // // pieces half-constructed or

half -deconstructed, // // for some architectural or mechanical purpos

ctural or mechanical purpose // // now

half -forgotten. Electrical components. // // A pair of cast-iron sup

ng awake or sleeping // // or floating

half in half out, I’m sure // // it’ll last forever, the light that’s

a wooden curtain pole, // // two and a

half inches in diameter (the pole // // itself and four-inch rings su

or sleeping // // or floating half in

half out, I’m sure // // it’ll last forever, the light that’s leaking

wn fragments, snatches— // // some now

half -remembered, some long since forgotten— // // but nothing that re

Ninety-six and counting

le, pear: // // pole-to-pole // // in

half then quarters // // cut the core from each. // // But no, for o

to // // one window; but one young man

half -turned // // across the rest, looking with unfocussed eyes // /

e to wait // // another thirteen and a

half years. // //

January Nineteen Hundred and One

s the only heat. // // The lino on the

hall floor had been laid // // in nineteen thirty three, the newsprin

Peckham 1969—1991

Hall // // Later, my mother will describe the house itself // // as

ger. // // I love you. // // Draughty

hall . Now send a letter. // // Parchment, new quill pen, and ink. //

lack. // // On holiday by train! Vast

hall // // of city station, noisy, full // // of people rushing ther

// // The houses, and their rooms and

halls // // and whether it was night or day; // // the gardens, and

The dream I dreamt

ome shiny erection to // // burnish my

halo . Ah, I have a whim // // to build a fine bridge clear across a

Troubled waters

At last we felt we had to call // // a

halt to worry, and agreed to sell // // for demolition, move to Cambe

Peckham 1969—1991

thello; six for king lear; // // seven

hamlet ; eight macbeth; nine // // for any other choice. You’ll find

Septilla CDSeptilla CD*

nd holes and scars // // from saws and

hammers and screwed-on wood- // // and metal-working vices added to t

e bare flesh of // // the back of your

hand as you reach past to pilfer // // the clusters beyond, adding sc

d // // with a comb and a glass in her

hand . // // See the pretty girl in that mirror there— // // Who can

All done with mirrors

head // // as well as actions close at

hand // // (the apple said), // // to comprehend the universe // //

of city herbage in city clag // // —a

handful of trees, bulbs // // and other plants. // // On one // //

South London standoff

ort to footnotes just to keep a healthy

handle on the case. // // * following the example of the chemists an

y. Did I really // // spring from the

hands of the great Praxiteles? // // I cannot now recall. // // No m

by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it into our

hands ). She introduced me to so many artists. As I have visited othe

Fragments of a life

// // patch pockets (useless for cold

hands ), // // thick felted wool, a monk-like hood— // // and with (t

Donkeys don’t wear jackets

// // far away and long ago. // // A

handsome prince will boldly go // // and dangers great will bravely f

The world just so

nd repair— // // occasional work for a

handyman . // // That is now my role— // // making the necessary repa

nd fibre sealing rings. // // The jars

hang from their lids, nailed to // // the shelf above. The boxes and

towards my fate, // // or did I merely

hang on by my fingernails // // while the tornado raged around me? //

Capricorn suite

Hanging garden. Send a letter. // // Fresh clay tablet, stylus, scrib

Post truth // // // ‘Oh Mirror that

hangs on the wall // // who is the fairest of all?’ // // The mirror

onger the way we find out // // what’s

happening in the world. // // Nevertheless, I still like // // on oc

red, and cooked and served. // // What

happens afterwards you don’t explain. // // Perhaps they eat it with

On offerings to the gods

surely room for one more. // // Now it

happens my old friend is crowned mayor of London, he // // goes by th

Troubled waters

me in trim— // // now the Gurkhas are

happy —some shiny erection to // // burnish my halo. Ah, I have a whi

Troubled waters

gon he’ll be glad.” // // The Boris is

happy . “We need a designer with // // boldness and vision—I know jus

Troubled waters

// The trickle slackens, changes in the

harbour ; // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // at the bar the wav

. // // Later, much later, I limp into

harbour . My // // family playing, completely oblivious. // //

by a bolt embedded in // // the Newlyn

harbour wall. // // One day, a storm will // // simply erase them. /

ippegan Island; Cape Sable // // bays;

harbours // // One to one million two hundred and fifty thousand: Lo

a clump of pears whose fruit // // is

hard as stone. (But when stewed overnight // // in the oven of the p

lution into two? // // if I squeeze it

hard can I make it fit // // into, out or through? // // Is it sayin

The truth about x

erfectability except our own. // // In

hard cast bronze all hardness now replaced, // // the soft and sensuo

Sculpting the vortex

The tide is high, and every wave tries

hard // // to breach the wall. And when it hits just right // // th

Walking in winter

or quite complex? // // Is it plain or

hard to know? // // Is it written in spray-paint all over the wall, /

The truth about x

ansient trials pass? // // It’s really

hard to know. // // We have no crystal ball, no glass. // // The lig

can be blamed // // for many things.

Hard to tell, now, // // which failing faculties to place // // at i

aight to synthesis. // // Tried // //

hard // // to write // // a fib on // // achievement, but got // /

Fibonacci series

d // // goes head over heels // // on

hard , unyielding // // rocks and stones, // // falls back under my f

omething would unfold, // // something

hard would turn to something good // // some dormant thing would wake

n or charcoal, // // paints in oils on

hardboard . // // — // // 1973. Six-year-old Emily visits. // // At

ling and shrieking. // // It pushes us

harder , // // makes us grow broader and taller, // // sweeps spray f

ough.) // // ‘Every mile is two’? no,

hardly thus. // // Some miles are ten, while others swiftly pass. //

Walking in winter

// // Rough softness grows // // but

hardness cannot grow. // // Rough softness is too big, // // leaves

inside hardness. // // Softness grows,

hardness grows too, // // spirals round itself, trumpet-like. // //

our own. // // In hard cast bronze all

hardness now replaced, // // the soft and sensuous flesh joins love’s

Sculpting the vortex

Carapace // // Tiny

hardness on tiny softness. // // Softness crawls over sand and rock /

still, fades away. // // Empty spiral

hardness rests // // on the sea-bed. Forever? // // Another, roughe

// Sometimes softness shelters inside

hardness . // // Softness grows, hardness grows too, // // spirals ro

in filtered blue light, // // carrying

hardness with it. // // Sometimes softness shelters inside hardness.

ther, wet bracken, wet moss, wet // //

hardy grasses, and sometimes, dimly in the mist, // // wet sheep. //

s go on forever? // // Empty again, in

harsher light. // // Another softness, giant but gentle. // // Soft

ately progress pass // // destined for

Harwich or for Felixstowe. // //

with her who to her lover’s side makes

haste : // // jump willing into every word-filled well. // // That bo

Jump willing in

t. // // Just fancy that—swallowed his

hat ! // // He swallowed his hat to fend off the rain. // // What an

ere was an old fellow who swallowed his

hat . // // Just fancy that—swallowed his hat! // // He swallowed his

// // He swallowed the net to trap the

hat . // // Restart for that. // //

llowed his hat! // // He swallowed his

hat to fend off the rain. // // What an odd game—to swallow the rain!

the gauntlet // // battening down the

hatches // // closing down the argument // // shutting down the comp

Locking down too

n weed-o’er-run Shalott? // // She who

hath this garden laid // // —Nurturing the wayward seed, // // Plant

The Lady’s Maid

a group of people in evening dress, top

hats and the like, appropriate to some earlier era of the house’s exis

Fragments of a life

l rope-ladder, which // // we can then

haul up behind us, ready // // to defend against the next attack. //

// // Bottle of water and lunch in my

haversack . // // Climb by the obvious route from the valley, with //

e the decks to cool the wood // // Way-

hay , blow us away // // And pour a bucket on my head // // Give me s

the breathless sun beat down // // Way-

hay , blow us away // // And seek out any shade we can // // Give me

Adrift the middle of the sea // // Way-

hay , blow us away // // And there is nothing here for me // // Give

ps tomorrow there’ll be wind // // Way-

hay , blow us away // // And we can some direction find // // Give me

un all the sails up the mast // // Way-

hay , blow us away // // But we are bound for nowhere fast // // Give

izon’s clear from end to end // // Way-

hay , blow us away // // No hope of whistling up a wind // // Give me

ind! we wallow in the swell // // Way-

hay , blow us away // // The sails clatter as we roll // // Give me s

cchio, citron, calluna // // brassica,

hay , pelt, dove tale, pigeon // // mouse’s back, mole’s or elephant’s

/ // And yet you stay // // inside my

head , and take away my will // // to find a way. // // The final fra

us away // // And pour a bucket on my

head // // Give me some wind to blow us away // // Perhaps tomorrow

he line // // at dropping onto Isaac’s

head . // // His inspiration is not mine // // (the apple said). //

// Don’t waste your time on wild boar’s

head . // // If Aristotle makes you choke // // eat me instead. // /

// There remains a small bruise on my

head // // insufficient to send me to bed. // // Just imagine the gr

Newton’s counterfactuals

Ede (he would pick up a Brancusi stone

head , or a small cut brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it into o

Fragments of a life

// Now the one just ahead // // goes

head over heels // // on hard, unyielding // // rocks and stones, //

shrimp // // Do a boiler burn the duck

head . // // The prefecture of river drives meal chicken, // // Olive

Colourless green ideas found sleeping furiously

de, with the mud cliffs // // above my

head , the rest of the marsh // // is out of sight. // //

g, no tail, but raised high, // // and

head thrown back, I can dance. // //

that I hear. // // The words within my

head , what do they care? // // They rattle round, and link, and split

time to gush full spate. // // Now my

headlong dash abates— // // where I once was, the waders team, // //

s calling // // to face the town, runs

headlong for the bar, // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring //

summer fronds // // rise far above our

heads . In this bright green // // we wander, hacking out our paths,

st** resort to footnotes just to keep a

healthy handle on the case. // // * following the example of the che

s rhyme // // that even if my audience

hear it spoken aloud rather than seeing it on the page they will certa

never still. Even in my sleep // // I

hear the ground-swell gently break and sift, // // pushing the shingl

// Across the wood, onto the beach. We

hear // // the gulls, and faintly, far away, the churn // // of wave

Wells in winter

ir lines. The bows face seaward // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // against the current pushing strong

lackens, changes in the harbour; // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // at the bar the waves are washing o

lats and the sandbanks. Listing // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // boats are stranded at their statio

ising waters reach and lift them // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // echoes of the distant sea-swell ro

egins its steady, slow accretion // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // in places it has lost, reoccupatio

s another lingering turn, begins // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // retreating back the way it came, r

out, the creek a gentle trickle // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // the drying sand with muddy spots b

turns the boats around once more // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // to face the town, runs headlong fo

e saltmarsh channels water rises // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // to the edges of the sea-grass—paus

trickle. On the soft, receding // //

Hear the marsh-birds calling // // water’s edge, the birds are search

// // and soft voice says // // I can

hear the sea. // //

No voices in the almost-silence that I

hear , // // the soft subliminal sibilance of night. // // December s

No voices in the almost-silence that I

hear , // // the soft subliminal sibilance of night, // // no words,

no voices in the almost-silence that I

hear . // // The words within my head, what do they care? // // They

rearing up, up, turning over // // and

hear them crashing down. // // What is this cataclysm? // // Now the

// // tried to forget // // tried to

hear // // tried to ignore // // tried to learn // // tried to live

e, still // // to find a way. // // I

hear you say, // // “But life is for the living, do not kill // // a

/ // — // // A writer read, a speaker

heard , // // at every word a choice has made. // // Those that they

n that attactive girl be? // // I have

heard the mermaids singing, each to each. // // I do not think that t

All done with mirrors

world just so, // // a pretty maiden,

heart aglow // // will sit and spin, so full of grace, // // far awa

The world just so

phonist left behind. // // This is the

heat -death of the universe; // // the restaurant has closed, // // a

// // by gas, with open fires the only

heat . // // The lino on the hall floor had been laid // // in ninete

Peckham 1969—1991

penny. // // Brandy, a candle: // //

heat till it catches fire, // // pour out the blue flame. // // Afte

Light and shadow

aze. // // Even now, // // I feel the

heat upon my face. // // Twenty three years later, when my mother die

ed, // // reaching out to colonise the

heath , // // at war with the bracken. // // No fruit here—the thorns

’s brown bracken // // that covers the

heath . // // On magic carpet // // the Prince of Crim Tartary // //

Light and shadow

fir-trees lies // // a bracken-covered

heath . The summer fronds // // rise far above our heads. In this br

ld winds of autumn, on the wild Suffolk

heath , // // the wild Suffolk blackberries // // of my childhood rem

ll slanting across the moor, // // the

heather and the bracken, the moss, the lichen, // // the cropped gras

The rain and the air

sides, as far as we can see, // // wet

heather , wet bracken, wet moss, wet // // hardy grasses, and sometime

e buses which boosted my ego—the // //

Heatherwick’s sure to produce a fine plan. // // We also need money—o

Troubled waters

silly, that’s just the plumbing—a pipe

heating up. // // That breath of air? A passing presence? // // Don

aying attention, I // // stumble, fall

heavily forward and land with my // // shin on a knife-edge of rock t

// The all-clear // // // Blitz. The

heavy bombers, lighter now, // // are droning back towards their base

Capricorn suite

he road.) Sometimes at night, // // a

heavy goods train rattles the windows and plates // // on the shelves

Peckham 1969—1991

news // // // Five days after Charlie

Hebdo , I learn // // that something is growing at the tail end of my

Capricorn suite

aged around me? // // Or was it just a

hedge , backwards? // // Yesterday I was told: it looks clear. // //

Capricorn suite

know, the rain and the air? // // The

hedgerow , the field, the rapeseed and the corn. // // The five-bar ga

The rain and the air

t. Buzzards fly // // Above the weedy

hedgerows , by // // The once-proud towers of Camelot. // // Few peop

The Lady’s Maid

rows. // // We love the flowers in the

hedgerows // // no matter what the season of the year. // // At any

o fast // // to see the flowers in the

hedgerows . // // We love the flowers in the hedgerows // // no matte

he one just ahead // // goes head over

heels // // on hard, unyielding // // rocks and stones, // // falls

d lodgers. Daughter born // // at the

height of the Luftwaffe’s // // blitz on Sheffield. // // In north A

Ninety-six and counting

tide, I would be floating // // at the

height of the marsh, or maybe over it. // // But today we are in the

aph, // // so that y can now scale the

heights ? // // Relate to me now the truth about X. // // Is it going

The truth about x

erved that her natu- // // ral son and

heir // // was Tony Blair. // // Nigel Farrage // // has a mouth li

staggering and stumbling— // // how in

hell did he evade the line? // // Oh bugger! Now we have to get away

t’s … omigod, it’s a cockroach! Help!

Help ! // //

w disease. // // They seem to want our

help , but they can whistle // // as well for wind: we care not a titt

ly, that’s … omigod, it’s a cockroach!

Help ! Help! // //

m with me wherever I wander… but // //

help ! They are missing, I must have mislaid them when // // finding

e kettle through the spout as this will

help to reduce the amount of limescale that builds up on the filter.

Using your Kettle

the form both good and poor // // I’ll

help you find the words you’re looking for, // // to fit the rhyme an

That tiny movement in the corner? The

hem of an emerging apparition? // // Don’t be silly, that’s … omigod,

rfectability except our own. // // But

Henri’s pieces rattle too and shake // // our sense of part and whole

Sculpting the vortex

o small raised triangles // // of city

herbage in city clag // // —a handful of trees, bulbs // // and othe

South London standoff

/ You say they choose the finest of the

herd // // and how it’s killed, prepared, and cooked and served. //

On offerings to the gods

ng: can we doubt // // that somewhere

herein lies some deep philosophy? // // Voices, ipods, phones speak o

g her cabbage patch forever, // // The

hermit of Shalott. // //

The Lady’s Maid

r-Müller museum outside Amsterdam. The

Hermitage in Leningrad in Soviet days. Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge whe

Fragments of a life

lt cheated by // // that twenty-minute

hiatus . // // But the fire bore us no grudge, // // and welcomed us

ainst this, a certain toughness, // //

hidden , but evident in the number, // // best expressed Roman fashion

ets. // // From the bed the window was

hidden // // but from the table we could see // // a triangle of bac

Beds and trees and windows

ay? // // Does it mark the site of the

hidden gold // // on the secret island map? // // (Am I now getting

The truth about x

ing through, // // maybe chancing on a

hidden hollow which // // will make a temporary home, until // // th

seven-mile climb // // brings us to a

hidden jewel lake, // // soup-spoon-shaped, still half-covered // //

nks, godwits, curlews search // // for

hidden treasure, long beaks buried full // // to probe deep down bene

d flower into coloured flesh // // and

hide a secret inside. // // Feel the air. Turn in the four winds. Bro

old pair somewhere on one of the passes

high above Borrowdale in what was then still Westmorland. It wasn’t v

Fragments of a life

of the winter storm. // // The tide is

high , and every wave tries hard // // to breach the wall. And when i

Walking in winter

h no arms, one leg, no tail, but raised

high , // // and head thrown back, I can dance. // //

/ casts patterns of light on the // //

high bedroom ceiling. // //

Light and shadow

ewed // // in magazines, on billboards

high displayed, // // each model posed in languid attitude, // // in

For Robert Graves

ingle, perhaps // // (when the tide is

high enough) // // as far the cliff. The wind // // whips the spume

Covehithe, Suffolk

/ // The second had one window, rather

high — // // from the bed all I could see was sky. // // But rising g

Beds and trees and windows

of cast-iron supports for an old // //

high -level lavatory cistern, wonderfully // // ornate. A pump and va

/ // open moor // // deep lake // //

high mountain // // wide sea // // close forest // // by lake and s

Sharp lines // //

High overhead, the geese are flying out // // on their twice-a-day mi

dominant sound // // is continuous and

high -pitched. The borders we cross are eastward: // // under the cha

A poem for free

ave the same effect. // // On a spring

high tide, I would be floating // // at the height of the marsh, or m

day we are in the neaps: // // even at

high tide, with the mud cliffs // // above my head, the rest of the m

Reflections // //

High up above, at the edges of the air // // and the beginning of spa

ne. // // A red balloon, // // way up

high , // // with crescent moon // // from cold immune. // // Let sn

The moon in June

// disturbing our roll, // // getting

higher and closer. // // And the noise. // // A few ranks ahead, I s

ir, // // clear to my vantage point on

higher ground. // // Voices far across the valley sound. // // The h

s of trees // // that once grew on the

hill above, // // and bits of buildings, human artifacts. // // Geol

Covehithe, Suffolk

s the creek // // and had a go at East

Hills . // // A once in a century storm, // // that was thought to be

ht-beams almost horizontal; // // East

Hills aglow. // // Winds moaning round the corners and the rooftops,

Recorded syllables

wels; just the old // // and weathered

hills , created by some force // // beyond imagination; and of course

Daydream Dale Journey

// Yes, there will be more. // // More

hills , dales, crags, beaches // // more boat or cycle rides // // mo

iterates a pattern // // as old as the

hills // // each iteration // // shifts the sand, carves the coastli

Hills // // Hills? Well, dunes // // maybe two or three metres abov

far across the valley sound. // // The

hills ranged all around // // —they little care. // // Voices far ac

lleys, moors and dales, meadows, // //

hills , ravines descending, under the sky. // // Oceans, rivers, narro

East Hills // //

Hills ? Well, dunes // // maybe two or three metres above // // mean

/ // The mirror’s reply // // with no

hint of a sigh // // is to show him his face, warts and all. // //

xample: Judith Shea’s sculpture in the

Hirschhorn in Washington, close to a version of Rodin’s Balzac, and ca

Fragments of a life

// a real live snake, standing up and

hissing // // at our approach. We turn tail and flee // // as fast

e cups // // more tragedies, comedies,

histories // // more shapes, more colours, more darknesses // // mor

Victorian turrets // // of the Natural

History museum. // // You take turns to flick your marble // // acro

/ // across the asphalt. // // If you

hit your friend’s marble // // it’s yours to keep. // // But long be

d some common course, // // or bend or

hitch or bead? // // Some earlier occasion when // // our life-lines

rth by northwest? That was just // //

Hitchcock’s joke. // //

paper // // dated 1933 // // the year

Hitler came to power). // // Then we get on with our lives: // // th

// // to breach the wall. And when it

hits just right // // the spray rises a mile into the air // // (or

Walking in winter

away, // // the thud as one more apple

hits the muddy grass. // // East wind // // Winds bowling through tr

care not to spill // // your precious

hoard (I mean the ones you will deliver // // for tomorrow’s blackber

But perhaps instead I will go the whole

hog , the full nine yards: turn the paper onto its side and write each

word-filled well. // // That book will

hold against your ear a shell // // whose music makes your languid pu

Jump willing in

t, you think // // ‘This time, it will

hold my weight.’ // // But every step it drops you down // // into s

Walking in winter

The state of the world // // —

Hold on! It’s going to be a rough ride. // // —Hold on! I’m not rea

The state of the world

It’s going to be a rough ride. // // —

Hold on! I’m not ready yet. // //

The state of the world

s, giant but gentle. // // Soft digits

hold softly, lift softly // // place softly against another softness

e // // on occasion at least // // to

hold the front page // // along with the rest of that // // ink-spat

News // // They used to say “

hold the front page” // // but the front page // // is no longer the

lives there. // // An inflated bulb to

hold // // the other two in place. // // Subjective // // Discomfor

Capricorn suite

e. // // (One time, though, the hollow

holds // // a real live snake, standing up and hissing // // at our

here? // // Some object or event which

holds her stare? // // Or is it just the clarity of light, the glowin

Cape Cod Morning

defence // // drops thirty feet into a

hole . // // Cambridge, circa 1966 // // One cold winter’s afternoon

Walking in winter

/ it runs down the groove // // into a

hole in the post. // // A satisfying click, then it runs // // down

Channel Tunnel link. // // A monstrous

hole , quite big enough to eat // // the park and all the houses down

Peckham 1969—1991

/ by poking your finger // // into the

hole . // // The run was already old, dark green // // paint slowly d

l announced that it would sink // // a

hole to build the Channel Tunnel link. // // A monstrous hole, quite

Peckham 1969—1991

// // a perfect workbench—the cuts and

holes and scars // // from saws and hammers and screwed-on wood- //

go: click-clack click-clack. // // On

holiday by train! Vast hall // // of city station, noisy, full // /

On Skiddaw // //

Holiday cottage, the edge of the Lake District— // // family wanting

/ // And so, for two successive summer

holidays , // // we chopped and sawed and dug and then set fire to //

dventure. // // (One time, though, the

hollow holds // // a real live snake, standing up and hissing // //

cient oaks // // (one blasted trunk is

hollow through, and can be climbed // // inside) mark out the sandy/g

ough, // // maybe chancing on a hidden

hollow which // // will make a temporary home, until // // the next

ay, // // coursing the straits and the

hollows , // // meandering across meadows, // // from a spring it flo

rhaps I should plant // // some box or

holly . // //

glazed back door // // through box and

holly grown to full maturity // // to an iron-gated pointed arch //

produce of our labours. // // A box or

holly root, smouldering slowly, // // will burn for ever. The fire o

ered Cotswold stone. // // The box and

holly // // were magnificent, but could not be allowed // // to rema

rfect knot // // and find ourselves at

home . // //

s is too big, // // leaves for another

home . // // Another rough softness. // // Can this go on forever? //

t line the shelves, // // and close to

home as well: they too can be // // as dumb as all of us, the gods th

w beginning: // // a different kind of

home // // here on the north Norfolk coast. // // The wonder is that

Ninety-six and counting

st days of pain, // // another summer,

home in Camberwell. // // Between the endpoints there were many days

. // // And where’s that, when it’s at

home ? // // It’s a level that the tide rushes past // // on its way

ng fellow rambler. // // Marry, find a

home // // on the very edge of Sheffield // // facing the Derbyshire

Ninety-six and counting

ted // // the reject to us for our new

home . Or was it // // not until seven years later, the year that her

Good vibrations

out into the waves // // she has a new

home // // some eighty miles north-west // // moored on a pontoon //

// // It’s Jan, not June. // // Back

home soon // // warm and dry. // // A crescent moon. // // It’s Jan

The moon in June

hair, // // staying in place until at

home // // the small gas fire has warmed the room // // against the

Walking in winter

s return // // push against my trickle

home , // // to creep back in when I have gone. // // It’s time: my e

. Six-year-old Emily visits. // // At

home , two days later, // // she says to her dad // // “Judith is a p

llow which // // will make a temporary

home , until // // the next adventure. // // (One time, though, the h

On offerings to the gods // //

Homer , there’s something here that puzzles me. // // Libation pouring

On offerings to the gods

, // // thick felted wool, a monk-like

hood — // // and with (the most important thing) // // those wooden t

Donkeys don’t wear jackets

// That’s not in the book, to swallow a

hook . // // He swallowed the hook to recover the net. // // You’d sc

// He swallowed the string to catch the

hook . // // That’s not in the book, to swallow a hook. // // He swal

swallow a hook. // // He swallowed the

hook to recover the net. // // You’d scarcely bet he’d swallow a net.

oor. // // Tables, shelves, cupboards,

hooks , drawers. // // Places I wouldn’t have put them. // // Move an

Another senior moment

// masonry nails, screw-eyes, picture

hooks // // wallplugs, rivets, self-tapping metal screws, // // rubb

/ // and nuts and bolts and screws and

hooks // // were saved from all sorts of deconstructed // // objects

Société des Apaches // // (or Bunch of

Hooligans ) // // later to enrol, when they come to Paris // // Manue

January Nineteen Hundred and One

e ride. // // I’m ready and waiting, I

hope it’s not late. // // I’m sure they’ll get it to where I reside—

ing, or // // should I stay put in the

hope of a rescuer? // // Slowly I realise the pain is subsiding, the

// // Way-hay, blow us away // // No

hope of whistling up a wind // // Give me some wind to blow us away /

// It really is very annoying— // // I

hope we don’t lose any more. // // Three of our cushions are missing.

One of our cushions

Hopper Chōka // // Yellow neon light // // spilling through plate-gl

er. // // At intervals along the south

horizon // // container ships in stately progress pass // // destine

, low, // // yellow light-beams almost

horizontal ; // // East Hills aglow. // // Winds moaning round the co

Recorded syllables

the sixth and seventh periods, short of

horizontal space, // // we must** resort to footnotes just to keep a

ive me some wind to blow us away // //

Horizon’s clear from end to end // // Way-hay, blow us away // // No

he goat // // // I am transfixed as a

horned goat // // charges towards me // // from beyond the pale, und

Capricorn suite

the crescent moon— // // waxing if the

horns point east // // and waning if west. // // In the creek tides

one // // a stately ram, great curved

horns // // stands tense, alert and staring. A few // // feet away,

South London standoff

rollicking verse // // On a galloping

horse — // // But Aix was as far as he went. // // In Friday Market s

A poem for free

w pane. // // There was an overcrowded

hospital . // // There were the children to look after— // // there w

Black September

oices human, animal, machine. // // In

hospital // // Voices from the curtained bed next door: // // someon

the sun, // // bright spot, turn white

hot and burn. // //

// spot // // turn // // white // //

hot // // and burn. // // Tanka // // Bend the light just so // //

uff? // // —spinning around one of the

hot yellow bits // // way out here in the remoter backwaters // // o

// // the start, the lobby of a Greek

hotel // // in summer, where we met and all was well; // // the end,

he could without worry // // take the

hottest Currie. // // Gordon Brown // // replaced his frown // // w

// It’s becoming quite clear that the

hour // // for soft pussy-footing is past. // // It can’t be a stude

One of our cushions

uch sense in what he says. // // Small

hour // // No voices in the almost-silence that I hear, // // the so

ain. // // One afternoon for one brief

hour // // the air is warm enough to melt // // the topmost layer.

Walking in winter

But he was dead: // // had died three

hours after his arrival, // // was buried in an unmarked grave. // /

Black September

en’t passed walkers for more than three

hours now. // // When are they likely to send out a search party? //

uter edge, contains our own // // tree-

house , a canted deck of ancient planks, // // nailed across two angle

as been ploughed, the edges fenced, the

house // // demolished and rebuilt. The trees remain. // //

roducing six of us. // // L-shaped the

house ; enclosed within its arms // // a walled garden, left untended

e for a while // // to take him to the

house . // // I always regretted, felt cheated by // // that twenty-m

// // The sitting room of our

house in Peckham, the walls stripped and undecorated, but with marks a

Fragments of a life

1 // // Of eighteen sixty vintage, the

house is flat // // in face, no sign of the deep bay windows that //

Peckham 1969—1991

// Later, my mother will describe the

house itself // // as ugly. No such thought would cross my five- //

/ // piercing the wall, built like the

house // // of weathered Cotswold stone. // // The box and holly //

rush marks in a darker paint, made by a

house -painter cleaning his brush after painting some woodwork. Judith

Fragments of a life

// were scrapped and redesigned. The

house still stands.) // //

Peckham 1969—1991

1969. // // A small Victorian terrace

house // // stuccoed and flat-fronted. // // No electricity— // //

: // // the large, dilapidated country

house // // that is my mother’s next big venture after // // produci

// // the damp basement of the Peckham

house // // that we bought some forty years ago. // // One of the le

ot to feel safe // // until inside the

house .) // // The bracken spreads across a gentle slope // // toward

rth another try. A son. // // Council

house the other side of Sheffield. // // Polish husband transforms in

Ninety-six and counting

ens, full of trees. // // In our first

house together // // the bedroom was again first floor front. // //

Beds and trees and windows

nine. // // In nineteen sixty nine the

house was lit // // by gas, with open fires the only heat. // // The

Peckham 1969—1991

f deconstructed // // objects: defunct

household gadgets, // // broken furniture, shelves no longer // // s

Housepaint // // The depths of south London, 1969. // // A small Vic

floors? // // I cannot say. // // The

houses , and their rooms and halls // // and whether it was night or d

The dream I dreamt

ough to eat // // the park and all the

houses down the street. // // We joined the local protest, but to sma

Peckham 1969—1991

ed gully. // // The street between the

houses , the streetlight, // // the sign on the wall, the sign on the

The rain and the air

; Sherlock Court; Sherlock Close // //

houses ; yards; curbs // // One to fifty: Ground floor // // Bedroom

appropriate to some earlier era of the

house’s existence. We left the room unpainted for the best part of th

Fragments of a life

t. And rising left // // the Cape Cod

house’s painted clapboard side. // // At centre, as if growing from t

Cape Cod Morning

ers, song-birds, // // waders, hunters

hovering under the sky. // // People, people round the world—and I, /

ely in front. // // The wind is angry,

howling and shrieking. // // It pushes us harder, // // makes us gro

t, or black and white, // // or autumn

hues , or shades of grey— // // the colours that I saw last night //

The dream I dreamt

ses permeate the air // // with voices

human , animal, machine. // // An owl, a leaping fish, a fox afar— //

ses permeate the air // // with voices

human , animal, machine. // // In hospital // // Voices from the curt

ll above, // // and bits of buildings,

human artifacts. // // Geological time // // is foreshortened. This

Covehithe, Suffolk

sibilance of night, // // no words, no

human language in my ear, // // no voices in the almost-silence that

dragon, flying low, // // will seek a

human sacrifice, // // far away and long ago. // // A handsome princ

The world just so

rtened. This is now, here, // // real

human time. // //

Covehithe, Suffolk

harbours // // One to one million two

hundred and fifty thousand: Low Countries // // Gelderland; Glabbeek

d // // a century ago and // // three

hundred and forty miles // // to the south-west: // // marked by a b

January Nineteen

Hundred and One // // The century turns. // // Right on cue, Queen V

January Nineteen Hundred and One

tions; drained land // // One to three

hundred and sixteen thousand eight hundred: Scotland // // Dufftown;

/ // One to sixty three thousand three

hundred and sixty: Truro and Falmouth // // Mevagissey; Mingoose; Mab

ases; playing fields // // One to five

hundred : Block plan // // Sherlock Road; Sherlock Court; Sherlock Clo

ntain // // hundred-year forest // //

hundred -million-year sea // // ten-thousand-year lake // // thousand

hree hundred and sixteen thousand eight

hundred : Scotland // // Dufftown; Deeside; Dumfries // // roads; vi

/ // in a tidal Norfolk creek // // a

hundred yards from my door // //

ight // // it pulls the final prop. A

hundred yards // // of man’s best effort at defence // // drops thir

Walking in winter

// // ten-million-year mountain // //

hundred -year forest // // hundred-million-year sea // // ten-thousan

e back. // // On the cornices // // a

hundred years of whitewash. // // We wire from scratch, // // plumb,

kespeareline. // // * pronounced ’four

hundred ’ // //

Septilla CDSeptilla CD*

and D is now called up. // // First to

Hunmanby on the north-east Yorkshire coast // // for the requisite sq

Ninety-six and counting

nd of salt-marsh // // where barn-owls

hunt their prey. But not for long // // —impermanence’s permanence t

s, warblers, song-birds, // // waders,

hunters hovering under the sky. // // People, people round the world—

other side of Sheffield. // // Polish

husband transforms into // // Yorkshire male, expecting // // tea on

Ninety-six and counting