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.

S

shock Mountains; Shippegan Island; Cape
Sable // // bays; harbours // // One to one million two hundred and
n, flying low, // // will seek a human
sacrifice , // // far away and long ago.  // // A handsome prince will
ublic benefit’s not even there.”  // //
Sadiq says “The Boris’s vanity project has // // gone off the rails. 
siness is not keeping pace) // // —but
Sadiq the Most Evil deposes poor Boris, and // // gets the Red Margar
s fast as breath allows us, not to feel
safe // // until inside the house.) // // The bracken spreads across
town they settled down // // on purple
sage to lie.  // // A Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then walked h
spiration is not mine // // (the apple
said ).  // //
Whipped wide awake by what the thunder
said // // flashes silhouette the trees against the blind.  // // A s
Whipped wide awake by what the thunder
said , // // flashes silhouette the trees against the blind.  // // Un
to the floor— // // splatter!  // // I
said more!  More!  More!  // // A plate to the floor— // // shatter! 
The apple
said // // // // Of course we’d like to understand // // the stars
/ // just slipped away.  // // What it
said , or what it meant // // I cannot say.  // // Rainbow-bright, or
whipped wide awake by what the thunder
said .  // // Rain rattles on the rooftiles overhead // // and beats a
in nineteen thirty three, the newsprint
said .  // // The previous occupant, known as Mister Gray, // // (easi
tion to the bad.  // // The chances are
said // // to be good.  That’s good // // enough, I suppose.  // //
actions close at hand // // (the apple
said ), // // to comprehend the universe // // both in the large and
nes from Kings.  // // What the thunder
said // // Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said // // flashes
s // // One Friday morning when we set
sail // // and our ship not far from land // // (Navigation was alwa
rations // // of fishermen and trading
sailors // // ply back and forth overhead.  Was I carried for trade? 
// // Way-hay, blow us away // // The
sails clatter as we roll // // Give me some wind to blow us away //
Becalmed // // Run all the
sails up the mast // // Way-hay, blow us away // // But we are bound
e it some taxpayer funding, and get old
saint // // George of the Chancel to throw in some too.”  // // So th
pay // // a cosy Apple // // app, coy
sale .  // // Aye, cops lap // // a clay pope’s // // soapy place.  //
boat listing on the mudflat.  // // The
salt -marsh, the sedge and the samphire, // // the oyster-catcher, the
ts // // a calmer green oasis, band of
salt -marsh // // where barn-owls hunt their prey.  But not for long /
cents the sea-winds bring // // In the
saltmarsh channels water rises // // Hear the marsh-birds calling //
dal creeks that snake // // across the
saltmarsh , the currents // // are complex but have the same effect.  /
// Clearance time.  What can I possibly
salvage // // from all this?  // //
// has passed.  What should // // we
salvage from it, what burn, // // what reconstruct and // // what re
/ // The salt-marsh, the sedge and the
samphire , // // the oyster-catcher, the egret, the gliding gull.  //
ondike in 1896, in order to make proper
San Francisco bread, prospectors would carry with them their sourdough
sky encounters dark sea.  // // On the
sand , a scattering of razor shells // // that would be sharp if our t
uilt // // not only on, but of, // //
sand .  All along the foreshore, // // the remains of trees // // tha
y softness.  // // Softness crawls over
sand and rock // // in filtered blue light, // // carrying hardness
ach up the foreshore, // // the banked
sand and shingle, perhaps // // (when the tide is high enough) // //
// // each iteration // // shifts the
sand , carves the coastline // // into something new // //
way, the churn // // of waves upon the
sand .  Eastwards we turn, // // along the open beach, in rich sea air
e marsh-birds calling // // the drying
sand with muddy spots bespeckled.  // // Breath the scents the sea-win
ds bring // // of the mudflats and the
sandbanks .  Listing // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // boats a
ank that is // // the cliff.  A narrow
sandy beach past which // // the falling tide reveals the deep black
r bank // // of the next bend, another
sandy beach // // to reach by boat.  That place we call Japan:  // //
be climbed // // inside) mark out the
sandy /grassy bank that is // // the cliff.  A narrow sandy beach past
centuries // // have I lain upon this
sandy seafloor?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // Up there are storms
hine // // Fin de siècle.  // // Ethel
Sargant , botanist // // (Girton student 1880s) // // builds a lab in
rks in basement // // Tickets for Once
Sat night—check time // // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th // // Camera i
// On waters of the creek as smooth as
satin , // // drifting or paddling gently side by side, // // through
cy’s blushes // // drop cloth, slipper
satin , worsted // // dimity, blazer, babouche // // borrowed light,
Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // // XO
sauce explodes to grow the fragile bone.  // // The peasant family sti
ies four // // Butterfish cooked to no
sauce .  // // Young flourishing bowl bowl shrimp // // Do a boiler bu
Notes to a life // // Milk // //
Sausages or chops // // Veg—broccoli?  // // Some fruit // // Presen
low, vardo // // cromarty, ringwold or
savage ground // // smoked trout, wevet, bone, calamine // // lichen
e amount of water you need as this will
save electricity. // // Always make sure that the lid is p
ones you ate straight off the bush are
saved forever).  // // At the end of summer, and in the first mists //
bolts and screws and hooks // // were
saved from all sorts of deconstructed // // objects: defunct househol
Fragment // // I could not see what he
saw ; but I saw him see // // across the criss-cross checks and grids
// I could not see what he saw; but I
saw him see // // across the criss-cross checks and grids and pattern
street.  I could not see // // what he
saw …  // // Inspired?  Why should such a mundane scene // // so brief
ades of grey— // // the colours that I
saw last night // // just slipped away.  // // Through passages or co
summer holidays, // // we chopped and
sawed and dug and then set fire to // // the produce of our labours. 
he cuts and holes and scars // // from
saws and hammers and screwed-on wood- // // and metal-working vices a
wittering.  The twain // // with anglo-
saxon attitudes // // then to Caerphilly came.  // // They lingered l
out tube of toothpaste // // that the
saxophonist left behind.  // // This is the heat-death of the universe
// just slipped away— // // I cannot
say .  // //
// Did I give enough?  // // I cannot
say .  // //
wear to tread.  I’ll wear not what men
say .  // //
new friends did I meet?  // // I cannot
say .  // // And when we parted, did we say // // our last goodbyes, o
// // to find a way.  // // I hear you
say , // // “But life is for the living, do not kill // // another da
sing.  // // I don’t know quite what to
say .  // // It seems that there must be some rotter // // who’s sneak
well in their place // // —in muesli,
say , or maybe Christmas cake, // // or more appropriately, Suliman’s
say.  // // And when we parted, did we
say // // our last goodbyes, or maybe they // // just slipped away—
said, or what it meant // // I cannot
say .  // // Rainbow-bright, or black and white, // // or autumn hues,
arpets, rugs or floors?  // // I cannot
say .  // // The houses, and their rooms and halls // // and whether i
ll, // // another day.  // // I cannot
say // // whether I have the necessary skill // // to find a way.  //
ays made love with his shirt on.  // //
Saying “Now that I’m old, // // I do feel the cold— // // and my bre
another softness // // and soft voice
says // // I can hear the sea.  // //
In her very own month of May // // she
says “Now’s the time—fix the day.  // // You dance to my tune, // //
.  // // There is much sense in what he
says .  // // Small hour // // No voices in the almost-silence that I
benefit’s not even there.”  // // Sadiq
says “The Boris’s vanity project has // // gone off the rails.  I’m n
— // // there is much sense in what he
says , // // through these ideas he makes a worthy guide; // // his v
// At home, two days later, // // she
says to her dad // // “Judith is a painter, isn’t she?”  // // Yes.  /
her dial, // // from a stand-on weight
scale .  A device // // for demonstrating electricity to children:  //
ard from Japan whose verses never would
scan , adds an extra list.  // // As we* reach the sixth and seventh pe
cogwheels grind.  // // They peer, they
scan , they scrape, they test, they sound; // // they write their note
/ // Upstream again to clamber Gordale
Scar // // and rest, and breathe some more the cool clear air.  // //
gaze down on the ruins gray // // That
scar remote Shalott.  // // In the duck-weed-smothered edges // // Sk
e hook to recover the net.  // // You’d
scarcely bet he’d swallow a net.  // // He swallowed the net to trap t
erfect workbench—the cuts and holes and
scars // // from saws and hammers and screwed-on wood- // // and met
changed // // utterly.  And I have the
scars // // to prove it.  // // The all-clear // // // Blitz.  The
e have // // funeral pyres.) Later we
scatter the ashes // // in a wild part of the old South London cemete
ing, lying all around // // in bags or
scattered on the ground // // waiting to be found.  // // Waiting for
// // of the image that inspired it: a
scattering // // of people in a city street, shop-window-browsing.  //
ounters dark sea.  // // On the sand, a
scattering of razor shells // // that would be sharp if our toes were
long the margins waders // // scutter,
scavenge —redshank, // // godwit, curlew—long // // beaks probing dee
ack, // // long-legged waders scutter,
scavenge , seek // // their winter sustenance.  Out in the bay // //
some small additions.  And it becomes a
scene , a group of people in evening dress, top hats and the like, appr
// And the artist who is showing us the
scene // // —does he know what it is she sees?  The frame // // he c
// Inspired?  Why should such a mundane
scene // // so briefly glimpsed, make my muse suggest // // just thr
craping the window.  // // That waft of
scent ?  A malodourous revenant?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s just the
urtained parlour.  Send a letter.  // //
Scented paper, dip-pen, ink.  // // Branch post office, penny stamp.  /
e searching, finding.  // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // //
eir stations, waiting // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // as the rising waters reach and lift
headlong for the bar, // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // becomes a trickle.  On the soft, rec
ng strongly townward.  // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // In the saltmarsh channels water rise
the sea-grass—pauses, // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // makes another lingering turn, begins
as lost, reoccupation // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // of the mudflats and the sandbanks. 
t sea-swell rock them // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // straining at their lines.  The bows
way it came, regains // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // the channel, turns the boats around
ves are washing over.  // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // The tide begins its steady, slow acc
ddy spots bespeckled.  // // Breath the
scents the sea-winds bring // // The trickle slackens, changes in the
/ // to marry me.  Son develops // //
schizophrenia .  // // After G’s death, a chance // // for something n
Prokofiev and Carl Orf // // still at
school // // Aaron Copland and Kurt Weill // // in their cots // //
en the music for the ceremony // // —a
Schubert piano piece.) // // Standing around the Cambridge crematoriu
season of the year // // we listen to
Schubert’s Trout Quintet.  // // Listening to Schubert’s Trout Quintet
rt’s Trout Quintet.  // // Listening to
Schubert’s Trout Quintet // // the slow movement is of course the sec
paya, melon: // // pole-to-pole // //
scoop out the mushy core.  // // Mango: // // find the flat sides of
apy place.  // // So apply, ace:  // //
scope a play // // apocalypse.  // //
y miles to Barnard Castle?  // // Three
score , out/return // // Can I go there, with my eyesight?  // // Yes,
ed and sixteen thousand eight hundred: 
Scotland // // Dufftown; Deeside; Dumfries // // roads; villages //
lley, with // // Derwent behind me and
scrambles ahead of me.  // // Out of the pastures and onto the fell si
rind.  // // They peer, they scan, they
scrape , they test, they sound; // // they write their notes, interpre
ottom of the barrel // // the sound of
scraping has ceased.  // // This drain germinates here.  // //
at’s just a branch of the tree outside,
scraping the window.  // // That waft of scent?  A malodourous revenan
later, British Rail’s plans // // were
scrapped and redesigned.  The house still stands.) // //
chers, gulls // // compete for surface
scraps .  The beach is good // // for all.  The redshanks, godwits, cu
gs itch // // must get on // // first
scratch // // clothes on // // spell broken // // sleep gone // //
years of whitewash.  // // We wire from
scratch , // // plumb, strip everything: // // wallpaper from walls,
lfer // // the clusters beyond, adding
scratches // // to the stains already covering your fingers // // an
Rationale // // That
scratching ?  A poltergeist behind the skirting?  // // Don’t be silly,
/ which will drag us // // kicking and
screaming of course // // but maybe also wailing and gnashing our tee
e Ramble, traversing a // // difficult
scree but then joining an easier // // path with spectacular views ov
when // // finding my way through the
scree so much earlier.  // // Later, much later, I limp into harbour. 
e the cool clear air.  // // Beyond the
scree the open path leads on, // // a gentler walk, to bare bleak Mal
/ // the curlew rises suddenly, // //
screeching at my invasion of its space.  // // Two plovers wait a litt
// // Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W
screw ???—check first // // Cash m/c // // Washing // // Plan financ
cuphooks, clouts // // masonry nails,
screw -eyes, picture hooks // // wallplugs, rivets, self-tapping metal
scars // // from saws and hammers and
screwed -on wood- // // and metal-working vices added to those // //
beta, gamma, delta connection // // is
screwed up by a zeta factor // // in ways that I can neither // // c
g down the wind // // not as in // //
screwing up your courage // // putting up resistance // // throwing
Washers // // and nuts and bolts and
screws and hooks // // were saved from all sorts of deconstructed //
penter) as a child // // for nails and
screws .  At some more ordered // // stage of my life (certainly long
/ wallplugs, rivets, self-tapping metal
screws , // // rubber tap washers and fibre sealing rings.  // // The
ks, panel pins, ovals and round; // //
Screws : small, size 6, size 8, large.  // // Beside it stands another
tter.  // // Fresh clay tablet, stylus,
scribe .  // // Entrust to messenger.  // // I love you.  // // Flowing
apple clusters sway, // // the clouds
scud past, // // maybe catch // // close enough to make you jump, or
d limbs // // shed leaves with perfect
sculpted edges.  // // A bramble sends great arcing shoots, // // str
Sculpting the vortex // // // // Jacob’s Rock Drill pierces through
her.  Just for example:  Judith Shea’s
sculpture in the Hirschhorn in Washington, close to a version of Rodin
// // Along the margins waders // //
scutter , scavenge—redshank, // // godwit, curlew—long // // beaks pr
ladder-wrack, // // long-legged waders
scutter , scavenge, seek // // their winter sustenance.  Out in the ba
d soft voice says // // I can hear the
sea .  // //
and moor // // from sea to mountain to
sea // //
s, // // from a spring it flows to the
sea .  // //
n, // // along the open beach, in rich
sea air.  // // Look up, look up, my love—the sky is calling.  // // D
eek // // is draining back towards the
sea .  // // Along the margins waders // // scutter, scavenge—redshank
// is draining back again towards the
sea .  // // Along the muddy margins, in the lee // // of the sea-wall
pty spiral hardness rests // // on the
sea -bed.  Forever?  // // Another, rougher softness, // // but with s
orelines tumbling under the sky.  // //
Sea -birds, pond-birds, dippers, warblers, song-birds, // // waders, h
am // // rambling moor // // changing
sea // // blue sea // // silver lake // // purple moor // // green
p lake // // high mountain // // wide
sea // // close forest // // by lake and stream // // by forest and
ear’s growth, // // looks like a great
sea -crag in miniature, // // a tumbling precipice of rock—or maybe ic
irds calling // // to the edges of the
sea -grass—pauses, // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // //
eshow: all the while // // the crafty
sea is also digging down // // beneath the piles.  Then one stormy ni
Shingle Street // // The
sea is never still.  Even in my sleep // // I hear the ground-swell g
e two or three metres above // // mean
sea level.  // // And where’s that, when it’s at home?  // // It’s a l
A cloppy
sea // // Lose pay cap, // // O palace spy.  // // Lay pop case //
al too: // // pale sky encounters dark
sea .  // // On the sand, a scattering of razor shells // // that woul
st // // flashing stream // // bright
sea // // rugged moor // // sharp mountain // // still lake // //
ng moor // // changing sea // // blue
sea // // silver lake // // purple moor // // green forest // // c
ds calling // // echoes of the distant
sea -swell rock them // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // /
in // // jagged mountain // // choppy
sea // // swirling stream // // smooth lake // // dense forest //
year forest // // hundred-million-year
sea // // ten-thousand-year lake // // thousand-year stream // // n
run // // between the marshes and the
sea .  The sun // // is low ahead of us, the sky is clear.  // // Acro
m // // by forest and moor // // from
sea to mountain to sea // //
end, where must it flee?  // // To the
sea .  // // Tumbling through rocks with rainbow spray, // // coursing
muddy margins, in the lee // // of the
sea -wall, around the bladder-wrack, // // long-legged waders scutter,
us away // // Adrift the middle of the
sea // // Way-hay, blow us away // // And there is nothing here for
, finding.  // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // //
s, waiting // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // as the rising waters reach and lift them // //
r the bar, // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // becomes a trickle.  On the soft, receding // /
townward.  // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // In the saltmarsh channels water rises // // He
ss—pauses, // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // makes another lingering turn, begins // // Hea
occupation // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // of the mudflats and the sandbanks.  Listing //
rock them // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // straining at their lines.  The bows face seawar
e, regains // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // the channel, turns the boats around once more /
hing over.  // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // The tide begins its steady, slow accretion //
especkled.  // // Breath the scents the
sea -winds bring // // The trickle slackens, changes in the harbour; /
ries // // have I lain upon this sandy
seafloor ?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // Up there are storms and c
makes fish cake.  // // Fried kind’s of
seafood in monolith // // Do the crispy bean curd of boiler, // // B
er sustenance.  Out in the bay // // a
seal watches us, then flips away, // // dives deep, leaving behind a
ws, // // rubber tap washers and fibre
sealing rings.  // // The jars hang from their lids, nailed to // //
wing day.  // // Of shoes and ships and
sealing wax, // // and such great themes as these, // // talking the
on’t notice them at all: the journey is
seamless // // and, in truth, a little dull.  // // From Brussels by
r all.  The redshanks, godwits, curlews
search // // for hidden treasure, long beaks buried full // // to pr
// When are they likely to send out a
search party?  // // Probably not until well after dark has come.  //
ling // // water’s edge, the birds are
searching , finding.  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // /
ger-fiddling // // stroking, tickling,
searching in—but // // there was an old man called Michael Finnegan—
iz Step; Karakoram Ra // // countries;
seas // // One to ten million:  Middle East // // Bam Posht; Badiyat
e // // across so many alien lands and
seas // // some people have some nasty new disease.  // // They seem
anas Trench, Macquarie Ridge, Mendocino
Seascarp // // the shape of the world // // One to thirty million: 
behind for us to ponder, // // in any
season .  // //
the hedgerows // // no matter what the
season of the year.  // // At any time or season of the year // // we
ason of the year.  // // At any time or
season of the year // // we listen to Schubert’s Trout Quintet.  // /
The Liedera rondeau // // In any
season , some young man will wander // // along the byways, thoughts t
, dreams pervade the path // // in any
season .  // // The author, he whose life the fates would squander— //
nd flow, each moonphase // // and each
season (the navigation buoys must needs // // be relocated every spri
fired, // // crops are watered.  // //
Seasons and years are counted and timed.  // // Philosophies are aired
eepless nights, more dreams // // more
seasons bleeding into seasons.  // // Just not so many more.  // //
reams // // more seasons bleeding into
seasons .  // // Just not so many more.  // //
omptly, busily, without rising from her
seat , makes everyone shuffle up in order to allow Judith to sit down. 
aged New York woman, sitting on a bench
seat , observes the situation, and promptly, busily, without rising fro
Judith and me standing as there are no
seats ; she is 4 or 5 months pregnant at the time.  A tiny middle-aged
training at their lines.  The bows face
seaward // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // against the current
winter, on the ramparts // // looking
seaward , sun behind us, low, // // yellow light-beams almost horizont
r of a tree-bordered square.  // // The
second had one window, rather high— // // from the bed all I could se
// the slow movement is of course the
second .  // // Of course we should move slowly for some seconds.  // /
e top of the table is sparse, but every
second period or layer, // // like the bard from Japan whose verses n
e trees in the front garden.  // // The
second was at the back // // of a London terrace in a triangle of str
en them // // or down to earth.  // //
Seconds later, over the drumming rain, // // a sharp wall of sound.  /
f course we should move slowly for some
seconds .  // // No, more than that.  Maybe for a day— // // even more
r into coloured flesh // // and hide a
secret inside.  // // Feel the air.  Turn in the four winds.  Broadcast
pple // // equatorially // // see its
secret : // // the apple is a five-pointed fruit.  // //
.  Turn in the four winds.  Broadcast the
secret // // to earth, as far away as it will go.  Let the browns //
ring through the marsh // // carve out
sections of bank // // leaving sharp cliffs of compacted mud.  // //
ed each drawer // // into four or more
sections , with plywood strips // // carefully cut and glued.  And lab
the mudflat.  // // The salt-marsh, the
sedge and the samphire, // // the oyster-catcher, the egret, the glid
dden // // but from the table we could
see // // a triangle of back gardens, full of trees.  // // In our fi
ould not see what he saw; but I saw him
see // // across the criss-cross checks and grids and patterned latti
pens it ever so wide // // and you can
see all the junk inside. // // grey John Major // // surely had a wa
apping till it’s // // light enough to
see .  // // Below the bulges, // // not yet decipherable, // // oran
a up with mu and lambda.  // // I can’t
see clearly:  I’ll need to wander // // some way in that direction to
/ // —the real crematorium— // // and
see her consigned to the flames.  // // (I completely understand why p
ne.  // // With a terse verse form, you
see , // // I can get along just fine.  // // But seven feet!  I must
me // // where I stood for all men to
see ?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // Cities flourish and decay.  In
of firs // // —the kind you sometimes
see in lines across // // the Suffolk countryside, each tall bare tru
the picture frame.  // // What does she
see ?  Is there something there?  // // Some object or event which hold
cut an apple // // equatorially // //
see its secret: // // the apple is a five-pointed fruit.  // //
/ // reminds us of so much we’ll never
see .  // // Life and death are two, and now are one: // // no perfect
om walk // // Looking backwards, I can
see // // mistily, the shape of things: // // the steps which, added
e ranks ahead.  // // But mostly, I can
see // // only the back // // of the one immediately in front.  // /
es it look like from the inside?  // //
See that blue-green ball of stuff? // // —spinning around one of the
ack.  // // First we go to the front to
see // // the engine, wheels bigger than me— // // a great big monst
was probably driving too fast // // to
see the flowers in the hedgerows.  // // We love the flowers in the he
h, but green // // (I think that I can
see the nuts it sheds) // // on the grove’s outer edge, contains our
a comb and a glass in her hand.  // //
See the pretty girl in that mirror there— // // Who can that attactiv
hich will never be fashionable).  // //
See the slime on it?  // // Wonder if I can get it to do // // anythi
e window.  From our bed // // we could
see the tops of // // the trees in the front garden.  // // The secon
the noise.  // // A few ranks ahead, I
see them // // rearing up, up, turning over // // and hear them cras
gely, though, not sex but fire).  // //
See this: // // the large, dilapidated country house // // that is m
// // tried to recall // // tried to
see // // tried to sleep // // tried to speak // // tried to think
r high— // // from the bed all I could
see was sky.  // // But rising gave me sight // // of an acacia, a fe
Fragment // // I could not
see what he saw; but I saw him see // // across the criss-cross check
distance down the street.  I could not
see // // what he saw…  // // Inspired?  Why should such a mundane sc
rden laid // // —Nurturing the wayward
seed , // // Planting out this cabbage-bed— // // She was once a lady
dience hear it spoken aloud rather than
seeing it on the page they will certainly know it.  // //
enough? use every day?  // // Days for
seeing you in different ways.  // // Days enough for giving and receiv
wingéd dragon, flying low, // // will
seek a human sacrifice, // // far away and long ago.  // // A handsom
// // Way-hay, blow us away // // And
seek out any shade we can // // Give me some wind to blow us away //
le or two // // to the village shop to
seek supplies // // becomes a daily ritual.  // // Suffolk, circa 195
/ long-legged waders scutter, scavenge,
seek // // their winter sustenance.  Out in the bay // // a seal wat
curves lined with jagged thorns, // //
seeking new ground to conquer.  // // Spiders’ webs among the undergro
off // // from continental flow // //
seem more like butchers working rough.  // // The light is going now. 
n.  // // Once in a while, though, they
seem // // to switch a gear, and take a lurch // // at some acute, u
ave some nasty new disease.  // // They
seem to want our help, but they can whistle // // as well for wind: w
l; // // the end, the moment life just
seemed to drain // // away from you, in those last days of pain, //
h lines crossed an edge, // // and two
seemed to twist into one, // // right there, beneath the bridge.  //
ire // // My sign is Aries.  Though it
seems a poor // // fit for me, it is at least a Fire.  // // The othe
// But seven feet!  I must admit that
seems exceeding wide, // // as if to start out on a voyage, a full ro
// a semi-stanza—and then to cease?  It
seems // // perverse—the more because the fellow // // was not weari
don’t know quite what to say.  // // It
seems that there must be some rotter // // who’s sneaking our cushion
and or maybe a million years, // // it
seems to be acting // // not in its own best interests.  // // Too ba
es a mile into the air // // (or so it
seems to me), to crash back down— // // you must be nimble.  // // La
probably malignant.  // // ‘Malignant’
seems too strong a word.  // // I’m sure it doesn’t really want // //
ages // // and talked to relatives not
seen for years.  // // It had to be, but it was not the memory we need
// But of course that is not so.  // //
Seen from here, the future is changed // // utterly.  And I have the
ne till you squint // // with the cold
seeping into each joint, // // it must be insane // // to expect tha
the lamp on the landing it’s spilling,
seeping // // under the door, // // sending delicate tendrils far, /
h after painting some woodwork.  Judith
sees something in the shapes, and using a charcoal stick, makes some s
ene // // —does he know what it is she
sees ?  The frame // // he chose has cut us off from looking at // //
s Labour a // // cardiovascular // //
seismic event.  // //
Lies fast upon the land so ill.  // //
Seldom now the skylark’s trill; // // No longer do the people fill //
make up an eight-syllable] beat.  // //
Selec - // // tions will do // // for five, three and two.  // // But
picture hooks // // wallplugs, rivets,
self -tapping metal screws, // // rubber tap washers and fibre sealing
l // // a halt to worry, and agreed to
sell // // for demolition, move to Camberwell.  // // (Two weeks late
ree alliterative lines—at best // // a
semi -stanza—and then to cease?  It seems // // perverse—the more beca
Stages // // Hanging garden. 
Send a letter.  // // Fresh clay tablet, stylus, scribe.  // // Entrus
.  // // I love you.  // // Wi-fi café. 
Send a letter.  // // Laptop, plug in power socket.  // // Click to se
// // I love you.  // // Flowing Nile. 
Send a letter.  // // New papyrus, brush and ink.  // // Command a mes
// I love you.  // // Papered bedsit. 
Send a letter.  // // Pad of paper, ballpoint pen.  // // Find a stamp
/ I love you.  // // Draughty hall.  Now
send a letter.  // // Parchment, new quill pen, and ink.  // // Employ
/ I love you.  // // Curtained parlour. 
Send a letter.  // // Scented paper, dip-pen, ink.  // // Branch post
, plug in power socket.  // // Click to
send .  // // I love you.  // //
ruise on my head // // insufficient to
send me to bed.  // // Just imagine the grief // // and the consequen
urs now.  // // When are they likely to
send out a search party?  // // Probably not until well after dark has
s, // // explore the earth, // // and
send signal fires // // blazing into the air.  // // Our space is the
as the railway // // that contrived to
send us on our way.  // // British Rail announced that it would sink /
, seeping // // under the door, // //
sending delicate tendrils far, // // invading the inky darkness, keep
erfect sculpted edges.  // // A bramble
sends great arcing shoots, // // strong curves lined with jagged thor
Another
senior moment // // // // Pocket.  // // No.  No?  No.  // // Other
ly, gestures wide.  // // There is much
sense in what he says.  // // Small hour // // No voices in the almos
ly, gestures wide— // // there is much
sense in what he says, // // through these ideas he makes a worthy gu
oor.  // // Responses muted, though the
sense is raw, // // to questions orderly, while exuding care.  // //
pieces rattle too and shake // // our
sense of part and whole, netsuke-like.  // // Bird and fish are two, a
to close // // an open sore, renew our
sense of // // time, rebuild the day.  // //
rfectability except our own.  // // His
senseless trenches death at twenty three // // reminds us of so much
on // // some cryptic rune.  // // The
senses fly.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // // Back home soon // // wa
// a shooting star.  // // To the sharp
senses , nature has many sharp lines.  // //
anger // // a wolf crouches // // his
senses tingling, too.  // // Around them, the flowers bloom and wither
, a sheep, cowering // // —and a lamb,
sensing danger // // suckling.  // // On the other // // the source
dness now replaced, // // the soft and
sensuous flesh joins love’s embrace.  // // Mother and child are two,
nce across the generations.  Each // //
sentient being touches and reshapes // // the world around her, far a
// all around the stone // // twist to
separate .  // // Orange, lemon, lime: // // equatorially // // squee
st past the London Eye, // // a bright
September day, the river’s edge, // // with crowds of people milling
me acute, unmeasured angle.  // // Last
September , meeting you.  // // The world looks different now.  // //
Black
September // // // There was a war.  // // There was a bitter, civil
Septilla CD* // // Please choose from the following nine // // optio
form—until // // an accidental spiral
sequence finds // // that it can make itself again, and fill // // t
idge // // are still at college // //
Sergei Prokofiev and Carl Orf // // still at school // // Aaron Copl
Fibonacci
series // // // Elemental fib…  // // Earth, // // air, // // fire
quite unlike // // the planted forest,
serried ranks of Christmas pine // // which begins a mile down the ro
should go // // And take her place in
service to // // The Lady of Shalott.  // // Working all day at her l
ater, one of the lodgers— // // Polish
serviceman and refugee— // // is worth another try.  A son.  // // Co
ken furniture, shelves no longer // //
serving any useful purpose.  // // The clutter covering the remainder
st a sort of passive acceptance.  // //
Set against this, a certain toughness, // // hidden, but evident in t
/ we chopped and sawed and dug and then
set fire to // // the produce of our labours.  // // A box or holly r
ere once was a poet in Ghent // // Who
set out with the best of intent // // In rollicking verse // // On a
rrors // // One Friday morning when we
set sail // // and our ship not far from land // // (Navigation was
well-cast spell.  // // That book will
set you puzzles which propel // // your thoughts, destroy or reconstr
railings, pointing, down pipe, clunch,
setting plaster // // string, cord, matchstick, tallow, vardo // //
an expansive gesture // // towards the
setting sun.  // // Go west, young man?  No, this is about // // a ce
cloud // // fire-edged, blots out the
setting sun.  // // Later, the clouds amass: // // watch now: if you
dry ground.  Let the cooling dark // //
settle around and about, under and over.  // // Complete another ring.
// // Retract.  // // Slacken.  // //
Settle .  // // Pause.  // // Repeat twice daily.  // // (Not by the su
d.  // // Reach.  // // Slacken.  // //
Settle .  // // Pause.  // // Start.  // // Tiptoe.  // // Retrace.  //
evening sky.  // // By Derby town they
settled down // // on purple sage to lie.  // // A Cheshire cat accos
/ I can get along just fine.  // // But
seven feet!  I must admit that seems exceeding wide, // // as if to s
five othello; six for king lear; // //
seven hamlet; eight macbeth; nine // // for any other choice.  You’ll
forest floor, streams and all.  // // A
seven -mile climb // // brings us to a hidden jewel lake, // // soup-
Seven what?  // //
Seven syllables would be // // long enough for any line.  // // With
Seven what?  // // Seven syllables would be // // long enough for any
r new home.  Or was it // // not until
seven years later, the year that her first // // grandchild arrived? 
mbles a narrative.  // // Born nineteen-
seventeen (dark days of the first world war) // // in Sheffield, stee
full report // // Turns out† that the
seventh layer consists mostly of ones that do not exist // // but nee
list.  // // As we* reach the sixth and
seventh periods, short of horizontal space, // // we must** resort to
first LP; // // strangely, though, not
sex but fire).  // // See this: // // the large, dilapidated country
Some variant has found // // how good
sex is—to mix the genes around.  // // The plants, the fish, the dinos
y, blow us away // // And seek out any
shade we can // // Give me some wind to blow us away // // Now sluic
ck and white, // // or autumn hues, or
shades of grey— // // the colours that I saw last night // // just s
Light and
shadow // // The rule: we should not // // begin unwrapping till it
/ // But Henri’s pieces rattle too and
shake // // our sense of part and whole, netsuke-like.  // // Bird an
te poetry well, but // // was no great
shakes // // in the marriage stakes.  // //
f the age.  // // Thank you for calling
Shakespeareline . // // * pronounced ’four hundred’ // //
reversals—these as well.  // // But we
shall leave such counterpoints behind us: // // time will tell.  // /
age patch forever, // // The hermit of
Shalott .  // //
the ruins gray // // That scar remote
Shalott .  // // In the duck-weed-smothered edges // // Skinny rats sn
y venture forth // // On weed-o’er-run
Shalott ?  // // She who hath this garden laid // // —Nurturing the wa
place in service to // // The Lady of
Shalott .  // // Working all day at her loom, // // Her mistress never
ddle East // // Bam Posht; Badiyat ash
Sham ; Bisharin // // railways; borders; deserts // // One to five mi
ie Ridge, Mendocino Seascarp // // the
shape of the world // // One to thirty million:  Eurasia // // Kuril
ackwards, I can see // // mistily, the
shape of things: // // the steps which, added up, construct // // my
a hidden jewel lake, // // soup-spoon-
shaped , still half-covered // // in slowly melting ice.  On the far s
er // // producing six of us.  // // L-
shaped the house; enclosed within its arms // // a walled garden, lef
Donkeys don’t wear jackets // //
Shapeless , navy blue or fawn, // // three-quarter length, or maybe sh
Judith to sit down.  They obey her, all
shapes and sizes of New Yorkers, like lambs.  It is a memory that Judi
woodwork.  Judith sees something in the
shapes , and using a charcoal stick, makes some small additions.  And i
my love—the sky is calling.  // // Dark
shapes are calling each to each: a throng // // moves north against t
gedies, comedies, histories // // more
shapes , more colours, more darknesses // // more storms, gales, light
plain.  // // Two book-ends bracket our
shared domain: // // the start, the lobby of a Greek hotel // // in
// Ahead, another line, // // flat and
sharp and natural too: // // pale sky encounters dark sea.  // // On
// take train // // rough grain // //
sharp blade // // shave again // // shine or rain // // wind or clo
ther, rougher softness, // // but with
sharp claws and barbs, // // fastens itself inside.  // // Movement i
rve out sections of bank // // leaving
sharp cliffs of compacted mud.  // // Evening.  A great dark cloud //
// and watch the stars emerge.  // //
Sharp dots; but watch and do not blink.  // // In time, an instant das
ng of razor shells // // that would be
sharp if our toes were bare.  // // Behind us, in the wood, // // tal
// To the sharp senses, nature has many
sharp lines.  // //
Sharp lines // // High overhead, the geese are flying out // // on t
// bright sea // // rugged moor // //
sharp mountain // // still lake // // resting lake // // rustling f
r simultaneously sweet and tart, // //
sharp on my mind’s tongue.  Why is it that // // this latter-day frui
: // // a shooting star.  // // To the
sharp senses, nature has many sharp lines.  // //
later, over the drumming rain, // // a
sharp wall of sound.  // // Later still, after the storm has passed //
Sharpness // // The latest growths are long and barbed, // // reachi
re!  // // A plate to the floor— // //
shatter !  // //
ng man writhing in the splinters of the
shattered window pane.  // // There was an overcrowded hospital.  // /
// whether vain // // same old // //
shave again // // it’s insane // // i’m bored // // take train //
Revolt // // // // // // //
shave again // // oh lord // // take train // // rough grain // //
/ rough grain // // sharp blade // //
shave again // // shine or rain // // wind or cloud // // take trai
them to her.  Just for example:  Judith
Shea’s sculpture in the Hirschhorn in Washington, close to a version o
oadleaf trees with twisted limbs // //
shed leaves with perfect sculpted edges.  // // A bramble sends great
// dark trunks against the blue, // //
shed long thin needles.  // // In the distance, // // gnarled broadle
oor // // Bedroom 2; Bathroom; Bicycle
shed // // walls; doors; drains // // One to ten:  Tiles // // Ormea
of pure water: a still.  // // Garden
shed // // with a still?  Local // // excise officer takes to // //
// (I think that I can see the nuts it
sheds ) // // on the grove’s outer edge, contains our own // // tree-
e lichen, // // the cropped grass, the
sheep - and rabbit-droppings, // // the bare rocks and the ridge, knif
and staring.  A few // // feet away, a
sheep , cowering // // —and a lamb, sensing danger // // suckling.  //
daughter // // are dead too.  Back to
Sheffield again.  // // How many friends have you outlived?  Eventuall
find a home // // on the very edge of
Sheffield // // facing the Derbyshire moors.  // // But the next war
ight of the Luftwaffe’s // // blitz on
Sheffield .  // // In north Africa, D is killed.  // // Later, one of t
// // Council house the other side of
Sheffield .  // // Polish husband transforms into // // Yorkshire male
e when he returns from work // // in a
Sheffield steel mill.  // // Daughter moves away to teach, and then //
days of the first world war) // // in
Sheffield , steel town.  // // Mother once ran a fish-and-chip shop.  //
ve you outlived?  Eventually // // the
Sheffield ties become more tenuous, // // legs weaken, and isolation
g from their lids, nailed to // // the
shelf above.  The boxes and tins are stacked // // in increasing diso
That book will hold against your ear a
shell // // whose music makes your languid pulses race: // // fall,
// On the sand, a scattering of razor
shells // // that would be sharp if our toes were bare.  // // Behind
ness with it.  // // Sometimes softness
shelters inside hardness.  // // Softness grows, hardness grows too, /
ill find in all the books that line the
shelves , // // and close to home as well: they too can be // // as d
beginning, by the door.  // // Tables,
shelves , cupboards, hooks, drawers.  // // Places I wouldn’t have put
es the windows and plates // // on the
shelves .  Later, the local rumour states // // that the train is carr
ehold gadgets, // // broken furniture,
shelves no longer // // serving any useful purpose.  // // The clutte
n— // // crowds stopped by his strange
shenanigan // // called out all their kith and kin—but // // the win
n // // Sherlock Road; Sherlock Court;
Sherlock Close // // houses; yards; curbs // // One to fifty:  Ground
ndred:  Block plan // // Sherlock Road;
Sherlock Court; Sherlock Close // // houses; yards; curbs // // One
One to five hundred:  Block plan // //
Sherlock Road; Sherlock Court; Sherlock Close // // houses; yards; cu
ve million:  Gulf of St Lawrence // //
Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan Island; Cape Sable // // bays; harbou
g.  // // Channels and banks of shingle
shift and melt, // // form and reform each ebb and flow, each moonpha
the hills // // each iteration // //
shifts the sand, carves the coastline // // into something new // //
heavily forward and land with my // //
shin on a knife-edge of rock that protrudes from the // // edge of th
/ sharp blade // // shave again // //
shine or rain // // wind or cloud // // take train // // whether va
ntly break and sift, // // pushing the
shingle back and forth and to and fro, // // in a flat calm air.  A w
later, we met again // // on a Suffolk
shingle beach.  // // In November the days were short, // // and dark
te blocks // // on piles all along the
shingle beach.  // // The mile south to the Martello tower, // // we
e foreshore, // // the banked sand and
shingle , perhaps // // (when the tide is high enough) // // as far t
un strong.  // // Channels and banks of
shingle shift and melt, // // form and reform each ebb and flow, each
Shingle Street // // The sea is never still.  Even in my sleep // //
l // // to probe deep down beneath the
shining mud.  // //
probing deep // // beneath the // //
shining // // mud.  // // Sonnet // // Cold and clear.  The tide run
der the sky // // Something out there,
shining , under the sky?  // // A whole wide world for wandering, under
— // // now the Gurkhas are happy—some
shiny erection to // // burnish my halo.  Ah, I have a whim // // to
ficult art, // // Though with only one
ship and one bell.) // // we there did espy a fair pretty maid // //
quite enough to float or sink a battle-
ship .  // // But perhaps instead I will go the whole hog, the full nin
morning when we set sail // // and our
ship not far from land // // (Navigation was always a difficult art,
t Lawrence // // Shickshock Mountains;
Shippegan Island; Cape Sable // // bays; harbours // // One to one m
the following day.  // // Of shoes and
ships and sealing wax, // // and such great themes as these, // // t
long the south horizon // // container
ships in stately progress pass // // destined for Harwich or for Feli
isite square-bashing.  And then when he
ships out, // // back to mother, in a two-up-two-down // // full of
hipwrecked?  Or cast overboard to avert
shipwreck ?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // Generations and generati
breezes and winter gales.  // // Was I
shipwrecked ?  Or cast overboard to avert shipwreck?  // // I cannot no
on // // who always made love with his
shirt on.  // // Saying “Now that I’m old, // // I do feel the cold—
clothes.  // // Feel something…  // //
Shit !  The wrong trousers!  // // “Was it there?  // // It was in the
of Camelot.  // // Only one remains to
shiver // // On the island in the river, // // Tending her cabbage p
ing up your jacket // // tying up your
shoelaces // // topping up the tank // // tearing up the contract //
hey passed the following day.  // // Of
shoes and ships and sealing wax, // // and such great themes as these
// In time, an instant dash: // // a
shooting star.  // // To the sharp senses, nature has many sharp lines
f clean-raked earth // // Where tender
shoots may venture forth // // On weed-o’er-run Shalott?  // // She w
es.  // // A bramble sends great arcing
shoots , // // strong curves lined with jagged thorns, // // seeking
pping up the meeting // // shutting up
shop // //
// // Mother once ran a fish-and-chip
shop .  // // A young rambler, you take part // // in the mass trespas
em sublime.  // // Must just ignore the
shop -committed crime, // // the muzakal banality which stings.  // //
The mile or two // // to the village
shop to seek supplies // // becomes a daily ritual.  // // Suffolk, c
ring // // of people in a city street,
shop -window-browsing.  // // A group, gathered around and gazing into
d streets // // and beer and chocolate
shops // // and churches, churches, churches // // and buildings tha
// // to redefine the contours of the
shore .  // // Around the river mouth the tides run strong.  // // Chan
Shore // // Nonnet // // Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the cre
grass and flowers can stretch shore to
shore .  // // Of bridges traversing the Thames here in London, we’ve /
// trees, grass and flowers can stretch
shore to shore.  // // Of bridges traversing the Thames here in London
fftops, creeks and inlets, // // rocky
shorelines tumbling under the sky.  // // Sea-birds, pond-birds, dippe
beach.  // // In November the days were
short , // // and dark night fell as we built and lit the fire // //
when my support // // is caught badly
short // // I’ll just have to ask ‘Where d’you pee?’  // //
e* reach the sixth and seventh periods,
short of horizontal space, // // we must** resort to footnotes just t
, // // three-quarter length, or maybe
short , // // patch pockets (useless for cold hands), // // thick fel
A
short treatise on string theory // // The beginning is the end and //
.  // // Beards may need some clipping,
shortening // // left alone they easily win—but // // there was an o
cape, upright and rounded as if on the
shoulders of its owner, but actually empty. // // The sitt
// Through air and ether people mutter,
shout , // // voices, ipods, phones speak out.  // // So many people t
The cruel looking-glass that will never
show a lass // // As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!
// like snow.  // // A line // // to
show // // can’t find, // // no.  // //
r bad, will know // // exactly when to
show her face, // // the world just so.  // // A wingéd dragon, flyin
// with no hint of a sigh // // is to
show him his face, warts and all.  // //
and regret not having had the chance to
show some of them to her.  Just for example:  Judith Shea’s sculpture
// // trees bending, dark green leaves
showing // // their lighter backs, a few edging // // towards the br
n reverie.  // // And the artist who is
showing us the scene // // —does he know what it is she sees?  The fr
.  // // The wind is angry, howling and
shrieking .  // // It pushes us harder, // // makes us grow broader an
uce.  // // Young flourishing bowl bowl
shrimp // // Do a boiler burn the duck head.  // // The prefecture of
.  // // Tiptoe.  // // Retrace.  // //
Shrink .  // // Drop back.  // // Build speed.  // // Build power.  //
under the sky.  // // Trees and bushes,
shrubs and flowers, mosses, // // ferns and grasses waving under the
ut rising from her seat, makes everyone
shuffle up in order to allow Judith to sit down.  They obey her, all s
// // closing down the argument // //
shutting down the computer // // tearing down the barriers // // cut
s // // wrapping up the meeting // //
shutting up shop // //
that I hear, // // the soft subliminal
sibilance of night.  // // December sounds // // Even I, atheist, fin
that I hear, // // the soft subliminal
sibilance of night, // // no words, no human language in my ear, //
from minute to minute; // // gives me
siblings to chase or criss-cross // // over and under // // as we sk
e mile // // Farringdon Without (north
side ) // //
ull nine yards: turn the paper onto its
side and write each line // // in something approaching or aping the
the Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard
side .  // // At centre, as if growing from the clapboards, // // but
tin, // // drifting or paddling gently
side by side, // // through clear and cool and quiet evening stillnes
// // The mirror crack’d from side to
side .  // // I look into the mirror, but it’s cracked // // And won’t
fell // // with her who to her lover’s
side makes haste: // // jump willing into every word-filled well.  //
A son.  // // Council house the other
side of Sheffield.  // // Polish husband transforms into // // Yorksh
htning rods earthed.  // // On the dark
side of the earth, // // in the light of a fire, // // and faint sta
inwright, you get sunburnt on the right
side of your face only.  As Judith had broken in a new pair of boots,
dinary suburban junction.  // // Narrow
side road curves to join // // a bend on a bigger road.  The pavement
/ Out of the pastures and onto the fell
side , still // // climbing the contours and catching my breath again.
// in slowly melting ice.  On the far
side // // the steep snow-covered slopes rise up // // to rampart ro
// drifting or paddling gently side by
side , // // through clear and cool and quiet evening stillness // //
ed wide; // // The mirror crack’d from
side to side.  // // I look into the mirror, but it’s cracked // // A
d a ton of words to fill each line from
side to side, // // verbosely quite enough to float or sink a battle-
of words to fill each line from side to
side , // // verbosely quite enough to float or sink a battle-ship.  //
pen.  // // Oh bugger!  // // The other
side // // // What was it, then, from which I just emerged?  // // D
// replaced his frown // // with a one-
sided smile // // that was off by a mile.  // // Tony Blair // // fl
n between feeding grounds // // in lop-
sided vees and slanting lines, // // dark against the sky.  // // Ahe
ore.  // // Mango: // // find the flat
sides of the stone // // slice alongside // // almost pole to almost
had to myself // // had windows on two
sides .  // // One looked across to a busy road // // but from my bed
we discover // // that that was just a
sideshow : all the while // // the crafty sea is also digging down //
// // control nor understand.  // // 3
sideways : perspiration // // Yet here’s a thought.  Just maybe I can
There must be moonshine // // Fin de
siècle .  // // Ethel Sargant, botanist // // (Girton student 1880s) /
hear the ground-swell gently break and
sift , // // pushing the shingle back and forth and to and fro, // //
mirror’s reply // // with no hint of a
sigh // // is to show him his face, warts and all.  // //
the rest of the marsh // // is out of
sight .  // //
et // // a tee-junction, and a line of
sight // // along a tree-lined road into the distance.  // //
see was sky.  // // But rising gave me
sight // // of an acacia, a fence and many // // trees around the ed
Fire // // My
sign is Aries.  Though it seems a poor // // fit for me, it is at lea
e, the house is flat // // in face, no
sign of the deep bay windows that // // adorn most later London terra
light, // // the sign on the wall, the
sign on the post, // // the white-painted sign spreadeagled on the ro
the houses, the streetlight, // // the
sign on the wall, the sign on the post, // // the white-painted sign
r and a day // // in Norfolk where the
sign reads slow you down.  // //
In Norfolk // // In Norfolk the
sign reads slow you down // // just in case we were driving too fast.
n on the post, // // the white-painted
sign spreadeagled on the road.  // // What do they know, the rain and
// explore the earth, // // and send
signal fires // // blazing into the air.  // // Our space is the eart
Some of these meeting-points // // are
signposted with names and distances // // that only roughly match the
ped and undecorated, but with marks and
signs accumulated over a century and a bit.  There is an area about 2f
all hour // // No voices in the almost-
silence that I hear, // // the soft subliminal sibilance of night, //
d fight.  // // No voices in the almost-
silence that I hear, // // the soft subliminal sibilance of night.  //
my ear, // // no voices in the almost-
silence that I hear.  // // The words within my head, what do they car
ith old friends // // more talks, more
silences // // more sleeps, more sleepless nights, more dreams // //
t // // all six eyes lowered // // in
silent contemplation.  // // The rest of the world is dark.  // //
by what the thunder said // // flashes
silhouette the trees against the blind.  // // A storm is raging as I
y what the thunder said, // // flashes
silhouette the trees against the blind.  // // Under canvas // // Nig
st behind the skirting?  // // Don’t be
silly , that’s just a branch of the tree outside, scraping the window. 
r?  A passing presence?  // // Don’t be
silly , that’s just a draught from the door.  // // That tiny movement
A malodourous revenant?  // // Don’t be
silly , that’s just the bin—needs emptying.  // // That knocking?  Foot
steps in the next room?  // // Don’t be
silly , that’s just the plumbing—a pipe heating up.  // // That breath
an emerging apparition?  // // Don’t be
silly , that’s … omigod, it’s a cockroach!  Help!  Help!  // //
ottom-feeder dredges // // Through the
silt of Camelot.  // // But what is this small beaten path // // Betw
path beside the wood—the fir // // and
silver birch along the dunes that run // // between the marshes and t
// changing sea // // blue sea // //
silver lake // // purple moor // // green forest // // clear stream
t here, // // except for age, pure and
simple .  No rage— // // just a sort of passive acceptance.  // // Set
ll.  // // One day, a storm will // //
simply erase them.  // // Four years ago a storm demolished // // the
remain forever perfect, // // forever
simultaneously sweet and tart, // // sharp on my mind’s tongue.  Why
// some now half-remembered, some long
since forgotten— // // but nothing that resembles a narrative.  // //
from the winter’s storms // // or long
since stripped of bark, criss-cross // // the forest floor, streams a
s // // looks vaguely oriental.  // //
Since then, of course, the bracken // // has been ploughed, the edges
h.  // // I do not think that they will
sing to me.  // // Mirror mirror on the wall // // who is the fairest
rl be?  // // I have heard the mermaids
singing , each to each.  // // I do not think that they will sing to me
in his knight’s array // // And gaily
singing on his way // // Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // // Years have pa
London // // // After that
single fact of life, a death, // // what was left was not so much a v
choice.  You’ll find // // that every
single play is here // // a new production for this year // // of ce
eam deep // // faint light // // bird
sings // // growing bright // // gadget pings // // go away // //
The word // // No, the
singularity is quite absurd.  // // In the beginning there were many w
// verbosely quite enough to float or
sink a battle-ship.  // // But perhaps instead I will go the whole hog
// British Rail announced that it would
sink // // a hole to build the Channel Tunnel link.  // // A monstrou
ily singing on his way // // Rode bold
Sir Lancelot.  // // Years have passed.  The winter’s chill // // Lie
ir bases, // // and fighters too.  The
siren call // // is in reverse, a brief release— // // until the fol
lowing night at least.  // // Odysseus'
sirens , of course // // can offer no such message.  Theirs // // is
hind.  // // Old age ain’t no place for
sissies .  // // —Bette Davis // //
achines.  // // At the bar three people
sit // // all six eyes lowered // // in silent contemplation.  // //
pretty maiden, heart aglow // // will
sit and spin, so full of grace, // // far away and long ago.  // // A
shuffle up in order to allow Judith to
sit down.  They obey her, all shapes and sizes of New Yorkers, like la
/ At one end of the bench in the garage
sits // // a miniature wooden eight-drawered chest // // given to me
beginning there were many words:  // //
sitting , lying all around // // in bags or scattered on the ground //
me.  A tiny middle-aged New York woman,
sitting on a bench seat, observes the situation, and promptly, busily,
t actually empty. // // The
sitting room of our house in Peckham, the walls stripped and undecorat
, sitting on a bench seat, observes the
situation , and promptly, busily, without rising from her seat, makes e
Ninety-
six and counting // // How little I really know of your life!  // //
At the bar three people sit // // all
six eyes lowered // // in silent contemplation.  // // The rest of th
of windsor, four; // // five othello;
six for king lear; // // seven hamlet; eight macbeth; nine // // for
remorsefully put them all back.  // //
Six of our cushions are missing.  // // The culprit must now be unmask
next big venture after // // producing
six of us.  // // L-shaped the house; enclosed within its arms // //
ls on hardboard.  // // — // // 1973. 
Six -year-old Emily visits.  // // At home, two days later, // // she
ed land // // One to three hundred and
sixteen thousand eight hundred:  Scotland // // Dufftown; Deeside; Du
an extra list.  // // As we* reach the
sixth and seventh periods, short of horizontal space, // // we must**
Pushing 60 // // My
sixtieth birthday is nearing— // // brings a thought that is far from
aving a row of nine.  // // In nineteen
sixty nine the house was lit // // by gas, with open fires the only h
of Gouriet) // // had come as a child
sixty -odd years before // // (well before the start of the first worl
again.  // // A memory // // (nineteen-
sixty -one or so—my teens—already // // between the end of the Chatter
es // // roads; villages // // One to
sixty three thousand three hundred and sixty:  Truro and Falmouth // /
sixty three thousand three hundred and
sixty :  Truro and Falmouth // // Mevagissey; Mingoose; Mabe Burnthouse
Peckham 1969—1991 // // Of eighteen
sixty vintage, the house is flat // // in face, no sign of the deep b
nd round; // // Screws: small, size 6,
size 8, large.  // // Beside it stands another of much later age:  //
ovals and round; // // Screws: small,
size 6, size 8, large.  // // Beside it stands another of much later a
it down.  They obey her, all shapes and
sizes of New Yorkers, like lambs.  It is a memory that Judith treasure
raced and covered // // the world with
skeins of wool.  // // And as we lived and loved and gained // // and
On
Skiddaw // // Holiday cottage, the edge of the Lake District— // //
wanting to rest and recuperate.  // //
Skiddaw is looming, inviting explorers—a // // challenge I cannot all
yes // // yawn and stretch // // blue
skies // // legs itch // // must get on // // first scratch // //
say // // whether I have the necessary
skill // // to find a way.  // // And now today // // is ending.  I
eep gone // // in motion // // sun on
skin // // door open // // breathe in.  // // Now begin.  // //
ancashire; // // so milk-white was her
skin .  // // In Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // // were twittering. 
In the duck-weed-smothered edges // //
Skinny rats sniff out the ledges, // // While between the stream-floo
d // // some miles of dale and moor to
skip across // // and find myself in wooded Janet’s Foss.  // // Upst
ross // // over and under // // as we
skip on the backs of the older ones.  // // The wind grows steady and
bleak Malham Tarn.  // // Then back to
skirt the edge of Malham Cove, // // with fields below and limestone
t scratching?  A poltergeist behind the
skirting ?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s just a branch of the tree outs
rs and catching my breath again.  // //
Skirting the back of the Little Man precipice, // // one final push u
// we have the earth, the water and the
sky .  // //
/ // good lives, the rainbow spans the
sky .  // //
/ roaming, rambling, drifting under the
sky .  // //
place we call Japan: // // against the
sky , a line of those same firs // // looks vaguely oriental.  // // S
Something out there, shining, under the
sky ?  // // A whole wide world for wandering, under the sky.  // // Mo
slanting lines, // // dark against the
sky .  // // Ahead, another line, // // flat and sharp and natural too
ng my path // // are elemental: water,
sky and earth // // and rock and air; no fire and no gold, // // no
tal, but carefully composed: // // the
sky behind the trees beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses glowing in
// // from the bed all I could see was
sky .  // // But rising gave me sight // // of an acacia, a fence and
cestershire; // // red was the evening
sky .  // // By Derby town they settled down // // on purple sage to l
/ // tall straight pines reach for the
sky , // // dark trunks against the blue, // // shed long thin needle
and sharp and natural too: // // pale
sky encounters dark sea.  // // On the sand, a scattering of razor she
r.  // // Look up, look up, my love—the
sky is calling.  // // Dark shapes are calling each to each: a throng
The sun // // is low ahead of us, the
sky is clear.  // // Across the wood, onto the beach.  We hear // //
/ and the beginning of space // // the
sky is dark, but the raging fire // // of the sun marks passing time.
// ferns and grasses waving under the
sky .  // // Islands, beaches, clifftops, creeks and inlets, // // roc
// // A crescent moon, // // a winter
sky .  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // // A red balloon, // // way up hi
, // // rushing wild clouds across the
sky , // // lying abed beneath the cobwebbed rafters, // // warm and
ole wide world for wandering, under the
sky .  // // Mountains, valleys, moors and dales, meadows, // // hills
// hills, ravines descending, under the
sky .  // // Oceans, rivers, narrow channels, torrents, // // tarns, a
// waders, hunters hovering under the
sky .  // // People, people round the world—and I, // // roaming, ramb
// rocky shorelines tumbling under the
sky .  // // Sea-birds, pond-birds, dippers, warblers, song-birds, //
Under the
sky // // Something out there, shining, under the sky?  // // A whole
// A blue lagoon, // // the deep blue
sky .  // // The crescent moon // // some cryptic rune.  // // The sen
s Maid // // Under a gray and lowering
sky // // The fields that by the river lie // // Are rough and unkem
ns, and streams slow-flowing, under the
sky .  // // Trees and bushes, shrubs and flowers, mosses, // // ferns
knife-edge against // // the deep blue
sky .  We take our boots off, // // dip our feet into water clear and
s and the ridge, knife-edge against the
sky .  // // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // // The gliste
the land so ill.  // // Seldom now the
skylark’s trill; // // No longer do the people fill // // The wharfs
// // borrowed light, dimpse, mizzle,
skylight // // ammonite, mahogany, archive // // plummett // // Not
n.  // // Merge.  // // Retract.  // //
Slacken .  // // Settle.  // // Pause.  // // Repeat twice daily.  // /
ad.  // // Spread.  // // Reach.  // //
Slacken .  // // Settle.  // // Pause.  // // Start.  // // Tiptoe.  //
the sea-winds bring // // The trickle
slackens , changes in the harbour; // // Hear the marsh-birds calling
ick-clack click-clack.  // // Raindrops
slanting across the glass.  // // We jump at a sudden sound-blast— //
n and the air?  // // The drystone wall
slanting across the moor, // // the heather and the bracken, the moss
gainst the fading evening light.  // //
Slanting lines are forming, breaking, forming // // ordered chaos wit
ng grounds // // in lop-sided vees and
slanting lines, // // dark against the sky.  // // Ahead, another lin
woods // // more curlews, more ragged,
slanting lines of geese // // more travels, journeys, voyages, expedi
// what a pain // // and absurd // //
slave again // // pull chain // // be bold // // brake train // //
r.  // // Complete another ring.  // //
Sleep .  // //
// gadget pings // // go away // //
sleep clings // // break of day // // brighter now // // here to st
/ clothes on // // spell broken // //
sleep gone // // in motion // // sun on skin // // door open // //
// The sea is never still.  Even in my
sleep // // I hear the ground-swell gently break and sift, // // pus
all // // tried to see // // tried to
sleep // // tried to speak // // tried to think // // tried to unde
Colourless green ideas found
sleeping furiously // // // The garlic slices the beef granule.  //
tore.  // // Whether I’m lying awake or
sleeping // // or floating half in half out, I’m sure // // it’ll la
more silences // // more sleeps, more
sleepless nights, more dreams // // more seasons bleeding into season
/ more talks, more silences // // more
sleeps , more sleepless nights, more dreams // // more seasons bleedin
re—the thorns will catch // // at your
sleeve , at the tails of your coat, // // and sometimes at the bare fl
find the flat sides of the stone // //
slice alongside // // almost pole to almost pole // // close as you
leeping furiously // // // The garlic
slices the beef granule.  // // The first boilers of iron plate glue e
w the light is fading // // as the day
slides into the mist.  // // Morning is always the morning.  // //
notched on the stick // // as the day
slides into the mist.  // // The long night’s images last.  // // But
The plastic boxes // // were made for
slides or toothpowder, tins // // for cocoa or throat lozenges or met
re darkly glowing, asking only // // a
slight encouragement.  As the day went on, // // we generated quantit
the story that once // // I received a
slight knock on the bonce.  // // For sure my laws must // // have fo
l never be fashionable).  // // See the
slime on it?  // // Wonder if I can get it to do // // anything remot
ast goodbyes, or maybe they // // just
slipped away— // // I cannot say.  // //
lours that I saw last night // // just
slipped away.  // // Through passages or corridors // // light-footed
rdens, and the garden walls // // just
slipped away.  // // What country lanes or city streets— // // and wh
dreamt, the dream I dreamt // // just
slipped away.  // // What it said, or what it meant // // I cannot sa
cks, nancy’s blushes // // drop cloth,
slipper satin, worsted // // dimity, blazer, babouche // // borrowed
ies the railway track.  // // (Down the
slope to the end of the street and right, // // the line bridges over
// The bracken spreads across a gentle
slope // // towards the river.  A line of ancient oaks // // (one bl
far side // // the steep snow-covered
slopes rise up // // to rampart rock walls, knife-edge against // //
ing ground: a smooth bank of mud // //
slopes up from the creek.  On the other bank // // a mud cliff, under
ring // // The tide begins its steady,
slow accretion // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // in places it
ls, torrents, // // tarns, and streams
slow -flowing, under the sky.  // // Trees and bushes, shrubs and flowe
to Schubert’s Trout Quintet // // the
slow movement is of course the second.  // // Of course we should move
glow // // time to rise // // feeling
slow // // rub eyes // // yawn and stretch // // blue skies // //
// // in Norfolk where the sign reads
slow you down.  // //
orfolk // // In Norfolk the sign reads
slow you down // // just in case we were driving too fast.  // // I w
second.  // // Of course we should move
slowly for some seconds.  // // No, more than that.  Maybe for a day—
ay put in the hope of a rescuer?  // //
Slowly I realise the pain is subsiding, the // // leg was not broken,
on-shaped, still half-covered // // in
slowly melting ice.  On the far side // // the steep snow-covered slo
// // A box or holly root, smouldering
slowly , // // will burn for ever.  The fire once begun // // would l
water, // // the cool night air // //
slows down time.  // // Now is the time // // to lie on the earth, //
me some wind to blow us away // // Now
sluice the decks to cool the wood // // Way-hay, blow us away // //
) // // this craven kraken creeps, and
slumbers not: // // a stealth invasion’s getting off the ground.  //
and using a charcoal stick, makes some
small additions.  And it becomes a scene, a group of people in evening
lue ocean.  // // In the beginning I am
small and playful, like the wind.  // // It changes direction from min
ilt of Camelot.  // // But what is this
small beaten path // // Between two beds of clean-raked earth // //
s stir fries a leaf mustard.  // // The
small bowl of wedding reception stews bean bubble, // // The taro rol
a dunce.  // // // // There remains a
small bruise on my head // // insufficient to send me to bed.  // //
later age: // // a plastic chest with
small , clear plastic drawers // // —unlabelled, but the nuts and bolt
uld pick up a Brancusi stone head, or a
small cut brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it into our hands). 
// We joined the local protest, but to
small // // effect.  At last we felt we had to call // // a halt to
/ my life.  // // Most of the steps are
small , // // following, if not a line, // // at least some vague dir
aying in place until at home // // the
small gas fire has warmed the room // // against the cold outside.  //
e is much sense in what he says.  // //
Small hour // // No voices in the almost-silence that I hear, // //
vements // // curl around, leaving two
small raised triangles // // of city herbage in city clag // // —a h
l pins, ovals and round; // // Screws: 
small , size 6, size 8, large.  // // Beside it stands another of much
rse // // both in the large and in the
small , // // to learn (for better or for worse) // // what moves us
depths of south London, 1969.  // // A
small Victorian terrace house // // stuccoed and flat-fronted.  // //
d tap.  // // Above, a tube, a valve, a
smaller tube.  // // Subjective // // An invasion of my privacy.  //
e billows // // move apart // // eyes
smart // // flames creep // // move apart // // flames leap // //
billows // // smoke grows // // eyes
smart // // smoke billows // // move apart // // eyes smart // //
he lineside banks is marked // // with
smears of fires, burnt and black.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack c
time // // to lie on the earth, // //
smell the air, // // feel the warmth of the fire, // // listen to th
laced his frown // // with a one-sided
smile // // that was off by a mile.  // // Tony Blair // // floated
// smoke grows // // eyes smart // //
smoke billows // // move apart // // eyes smart // // flames creep
/ smoke grows // // smoke curls // //
smoke billows // // smoke grows // // eyes smart // // smoke billow
flame unfurls // // twigs catch // //
smoke curls // // flame unfurls // // smoke grows // // smoke curls
flame unfurls // // smoke grows // //
smoke curls // // smoke billows // // smoke grows // // eyes smart
smoke curls // // smoke billows // //
smoke grows // // eyes smart // // smoke billows // // move apart /
smoke curls // // flame unfurls // //
smoke grows // // smoke curls // // smoke billows // // smoke grows
marty, ringwold or savage ground // //
smoked trout, wevet, bone, calamine // // lichen, brinjal, radicchio,
d dry.  // // On waters of the creek as
smooth as satin, // // drifting or paddling gently side by side, //
// To my left, the foraging ground: a
smooth bank of mud // // slopes up from the creek.  On the other bank
hoppy sea // // swirling stream // //
smooth lake // // dense forest // // rough moor // // million-year
the course of true gloves never did run
smooth .  No glove lost.  // // We have nothing to wear but wear itself
remote Shalott.  // // In the duck-weed-
smothered edges // // Skinny rats sniff out the ledges, // // While
et it burn // // glowing embers // //
smoulder down // // let it burn // // warm as toast // // smoulder
let it burn // // warm as toast // //
smoulder down // // potatoes roast // // warm as toast // // flames
ur labours.  // // A box or holly root,
smouldering slowly, // // will burn for ever.  The fire once begun //
annel.) // // In the tidal creeks that
snake // // across the saltmarsh, the currents // // are complex but
gh, the hollow holds // // a real live
snake , standing up and hissing // // at our approach.  We turn tail a
daughter // // I have known fragments,
snatches — // // some now half-remembered, some long since forgotten—
there must be some rotter // // who’s
sneaking our cushions away // // Four of our cushions are missing.  //
weed-smothered edges // // Skinny rats
sniff out the ledges, // // While between the stream-floor ridges //
Your
snore // // Alone in the dark of the night // // I would’ve turned o
// But now no more— // // your gentle
snore // // puts all the ghosts to flight.  // //
noises permeate the air.  // // Someone
snoring in the tent next door, // // a motorcycle coursing up the lan
and fleas // // but by their piss and
snot and sweat and spittle.  // // Oh, people spread!  Quick, guys, an
/ Words go // // from mind // // like
snow .  // // A line // // to show // // can’t find, // // no.  // /
ck // // against the wind it starts to
snow .  // // A snowdrift forms against the wire brush // // of David’
ice.  On the far side // // the steep
snow -covered slopes rise up // // to rampart rock walls, knife-edge a
oon // // from cold immune.  // // Let
snow lie, // // it’s Jan, not June.  // // A blue lagoon, // // the
step it drops you down // // into soft
snow , up to the tops // // of your gumboots.  The mile or two // //
st the wind it starts to snow.  // // A
snowdrift forms against the wire brush // // of David’s thick black h
for days // // —and then of course it
snows again.  // // One afternoon for one brief hour // // the air is
/ Berkshire, 1962-3 // // This year it
snows on Boxing Day.  // // The country road not cleared for days //
canopy // // in the warming sunlight. 
Soak up the rays and the air.  // // Transform the coloured flower int
e, cops lap // // a clay pope’s // //
soapy place.  // // So apply, ace: // // scope a play // // apocalyp
o, that icon of // // a time and maybe
social group // // —and then, when that one died, one more.  // // Wh
aurice Ravel has just joined // // the
Société des Apaches // // (or Bunch of Hooligans) // // later to enr
ecognition, fellowships // // (Linnean
Society 1904, // // Girton College 1913).  // // The Reigate lab, of
a letter.  // // Laptop, plug in power
socket .  // // Click to send.  // // I love you.  // //
Plug in and switch on at the wall
socket . // // Put the ON / OFF switch to its ‘ON’ position
ur cushions are missing // // from the
sofa just outside the door.  // // It really is very annoying— // //
e all hardness now replaced, // // the
soft and sensuous flesh joins love’s embrace.  // // Mother and child
thquake-waves and volcanic dust, // //
soft breezes and winter gales.  // // Was I shipwrecked?  Or cast over
ther softness, giant but gentle.  // //
Soft digits hold softly, lift softly // // place softly against anoth
ng quite clear that the hour // // for
soft pussy-footing is past.  // // It can’t be a student or fellow— //
bring // // becomes a trickle.  On the
soft , receding // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // water’s edge
very step it drops you down // // into
soft snow, up to the tops // // of your gumboots.  The mile or two //
almost-silence that I hear, // // the
soft subliminal sibilance of night.  // // December sounds // // Even
almost-silence that I hear, // // the
soft subliminal sibilance of night, // // no words, no human language
tly against another softness // // and
soft voice says // // I can hear the sea.  // //
s hold softly, lift softly // // place
softly against another softness // // and soft voice says // // I ca
ant but gentle.  // // Soft digits hold
softly , lift softly // // place softly against another softness // /
e.  // // Soft digits hold softly, lift
softly // // place softly against another softness // // and soft vo
s the deep black mud // // which oozes
softly up between our toes.  Across the river // // lies the lagoon,
tly // // place softly against another
softness // // and soft voice says // // I can hear the sea.  // //
-bed.  Forever?  // // Another, rougher
softness , // // but with sharp claws and barbs, // // fastens itself
for another home.  // // Another rough
softness .  // // Can this go on forever?  // // Empty again, in harshe
Tiny hardness on tiny softness.  // //
Softness crawls over sand and rock // // in filtered blue light, //
again, in harsher light.  // // Another
softness , giant but gentle.  // // Soft digits hold softly, lift softl
s faster, edgier, rougher.  // // Rough
softness grows // // but hardness cannot grow.  // // Rough softness
ftness shelters inside hardness.  // //
Softness grows, hardness grows too, // // spirals round itself, trump
.  // // Can this go on forever?  // //
Softness grows still, fades away.  // // Empty spiral hardness rests /
but hardness cannot grow.  // // Rough
softness is too big, // // leaves for another home.  // // Another ro
ying hardness with it.  // // Sometimes
softness shelters inside hardness.  // // Softness grows, hardness gro
Carapace // // Tiny hardness on tiny
softness .  // // Softness crawls over sand and rock // // in filtered
ny art galleries in many places.  Three
solid days in the Uffizi in Florence.  Walking in the drizzle the long
// never felt before— // // something
solid underneath us // // churning the water, // // disturbing our r
and then reveals // // the parts of a
solution .  // // All we need to do is make connection // // alpha to
rom the curtained bed next door:  // //
someone else’s fragile life is there.  // //
rom the curtained bed next door:  // //
someone else’s fragile life is there.  // // Each new doctor asks the
e carriers of plague at bay.  // // Yet
someone here is staggering and stumbling— // // how in hell did he ev
ht-time noises permeate the air.  // //
Someone snoring in the tent next door, // // a motorcycle coursing up
its side and write each line // // in
something approaching or aping the style of that wonderfully eccentric
ve—Earth, Water, Air—but Fire // // is
something else again.  // // A memory // // (nineteen-sixty-one or so
ld, // // something hard would turn to
something good // // some dormant thing would wake and sprout new gro
ce where something would unfold, // //
something hard would turn to something good // // some dormant thing
er painting some woodwork.  Judith sees
something in the shapes, and using a charcoal stick, makes some small
cean.  // // Where are we going?  // //
Something is changing: the ocean // // is bottomless no longer.  // /
fter Charlie Hebdo, I learn // // that
something is growing at the tail end of my colon: // // probably mali
is bottomless no longer.  // // I feel
something // // never felt before— // // something solid underneath
sand, carves the coastline // // into
something new // //
// After G’s death, a chance // // for
something new: migrate south // // to London, two grandchildren, //
Under the sky // //
Something out there, shining, under the sky?  // // A whole wide world
Chair with pile of clothes.  // // Feel
something …  // // Shit!  The wrong trousers!  // // “Was it there?  //
ething // // never felt before— // //
something solid underneath us // // churning the water, // // distur
f the little god, four cornered.  // //
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.  // // Out flew the web a
me.  // // What does she see?  Is there
something there?  // // Some object or event which holds her stare?  //
ile earth // // beneath, a place where
something would unfold, // // something hard would turn to something
ark— // // in truth, how cheesy is the
sometime chalk.  // //
/ // the line bridges over the road.)
Sometimes at night, // // a heavy goods train rattles the windows and
, at the tails of your coat, // // and
sometimes at the bare flesh of // // the back of your hand as you rea
tten corners, // // artists create and
sometimes destroy.  Did I really // // spring from the hands of the g
is a group of firs // // —the kind you
sometimes see in lines across // // the Suffolk countryside, each tal
/ // carrying hardness with it.  // //
Sometimes softness shelters inside hardness.  // // Softness grows, ha
and into whose dense interior // // we
sometimes venture.  // // Beyond the fir-trees lies // // a bracken-c
ng your fingers // // and your palms. 
Sometimes you must stop // // to disentangle a particularly tenacious
irst two were duds; the bits // // are
somewhere back there, along with // // all the other long-abandoned p
le lines // // // // // // // //
Somewhere deep down in my abysmal gut // // (well, really, just aroun
ople talking: can we doubt // // that
somewhere herein lies some deep philosophy?  // // Voices, ipods, phon
w pair of boots, we buried the old pair
somewhere on one of the passes high above Borrowdale in what was then
/ Dammit, used them yesterday.  Must be
somewhere .  // // Start again, from the beginning, by the door.  // //
re.  // // But within a few years, both
son and daughter // // are dead too.  Back to Sheffield again.  // //
// observed that her natu- // // ral
son and heir // // was Tony Blair.  // // Nigel Farrage // // has a
efugee— // // is worth another try.  A
son .  // // Council house the other side of Sheffield.  // // Polish h
to teach, and then // // to marry me. 
Son develops // // schizophrenia.  // // After G’s death, a chance //
ing // // ordered chaos with a raucous
song :  // // A thousand geese are flying into night.  // //
a-birds, pond-birds, dippers, warblers,
song -birds, // // waders, hunters hovering under the sky.  // // Peop
almost with dying breath, // // a swan-
song , left behind for us to ponder, // // in any season.  // //
Sunburn // //
Sonnet // // Bend the light // // just so // // above, below, // /
h the // // shining // // mud.  // //
Sonnet // // Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the creek // // is
zens of the fathers are visited on the
sons , even if living in zen.  // // Gloves are a many-splendoured thin
int; // // just as each new generation
soon finds itself // // rich rediscovering Bach’s counterpoint— // /
// It’s Jan, not June.  // // Back home
soon // // warm and dry.  // // A crescent moon.  // // It’s Jan, not
come about, but to close // // an open
sore , renew our sense of // // time, rebuild the day.  // //
f Ellen, Norna, or of Rosamunde.  // //
Sorrow , longing, dreams pervade the path // // in any season.  // //
the example of the chemists and their
sort // // ** because the margin is too narrow for a full report //
ure and simple.  No rage— // // just a
sort of passive acceptance.  // // Set against this, a certain toughne
ws and hooks // // were saved from all
sorts of deconstructed // // objects: defunct household gadgets, //
es or metal polish, // // jars for all
sorts of jams and pickles.  Washers // // and nuts and bolts and scre
s the glass.  // // We jump at a sudden
sound -blast— // // another train on the next track.  // // The bogeys
ail joints are welded, and the dominant
sound // // is continuous and high-pitched.  The borders we cross are
e drumming rain, // // a sharp wall of
sound .  // // Later still, after the storm has passed // // lie back
rom the bottom of the barrel // // the
sound of scraping has ceased.  // // This drain germinates here.  // /
nd.  // // Voices far across the valley
sound .  // // The hills ranged all around // // —they little care.  //
they scan, they scrape, they test, they
sound ; // // they write their notes, interpret what they find.  // //
dge // // Voices far across the valley
sound // // through still, warm air, // // clear to my vantage point
re.  // // Voices far across the valley
sound // // through still, warm air.  // // On the top deck of a 68 /
the line.  // // The last post has been
sounded .  // // The last post has been collected.  // // The last word
nal sibilance of night.  // // December
sounds // // Even I, atheist, find some of them sublime— // // Britt
SoundsTriolets // // On Rushup Edge // // Voices far across the vall
rings us to a hidden jewel lake, // //
soup -spoon-shaped, still half-covered // // in slowly melting ice.  O
glue east // // Grow face fa-cai thick
soup .  // // XO sauce explodes to grow the fragile bone.  // // The pe
uckling.  // // On the other // // the
source of danger // // a wolf crouches // // his senses tingling, to
The Reigate lab, of course // // has a
source // // of pure water: a still.  // // Garden shed // // with
ing the rest // // towards their major
source of trade:  // // England.  // // Back the way we came.  // // A
/ // // // // Recipe for starting a
sourdough starter.  // //   // // In the California gold rush of 1849
prospectors would carry with them their
sourdough starters, carefully protected in pouches around their necks
t’s in a name?  // // It’s been too far
south all its life: // // not cancer, but capricorn.  // // Catheter
forever.  // // At intervals along the
south horizon // // container ships in stately progress pass // // d
Housepaint // // The depths of
south London, 1969.  // // A small Victorian terrace house // // stuc
ashes // // in a wild part of the old
South London cemetery.  // // Perhaps I should plant // // some box o
South London standoff // // An ordinary suburban junction.  // // Nar
ance // // for something new: migrate
south // // to London, two grandchildren, // // and a world to explo
long the shingle beach.  // // The mile
south to the Martello tower, // // we walk along the banked-up track
e hundred and forty miles // // to the
south -west: // // marked by a bolt embedded in // // the Newlyn harb
Covehithe, Suffolk // //
South wind today.  So the breakers // // come at an angle, sweep //
sterdam.  The Hermitage in Leningrad in
Soviet days.  Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge when it was still managed by
// // to remain in occupation of that
space .  // // And so, for two successive summer holidays, // // we ch
and gaze into space.  // // We have the
space // // and the time // // to cross the waters, // // explore t
or take you on a voyage through deepest
space : // // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spell.  // // And
from the one you know.  // // It is the
space in which I must survive; // // It’s through this land, this cou
ent of my own imagination // // is the
space in which I must survive, // // with Frida as my muse and inspir
// // blazing into the air.  // // Our
space is the earth, // // time lives in fire, // // leaving us the w
a fire, // // and faint starlight from
space // // reflected in inky water, // // the cool night air // //
of the air // // and the beginning of
space // // the sky is dark, but the raging fire // // of the sun ma
out its own // // finite but unbounded
space -time continuum // // —cool!  // // There are some lovely spiral
ust a few more.  // // How about adding
space , time, love? // // … three fibs about fibs…  // // One, // //
// // screeching at my invasion of its
space .  // // Two plovers wait a little longer, // // then follow sui
ping of the water, // // and gaze into
space .  // // We have the space // // and the time // // to cross th
nd seventh periods, short of horizontal
space , // // we must** resort to footnotes just to keep a healthy han
ophies are aired, // // temple columns
spaced , // // lightning rods earthed.  // // On the dark side of the
d earths.  // // In forests and in open
spaces // // there are times // // when the imagination fires.  // /
our past // // good lives, the rainbow
spans the sky.  // //
k.  // // At night, the glow and flying
sparks .  // // Grass on the lineside banks is marked // // with smear
ng bright // // throw on timber // //
sparks take flight // // glowing embers // // throw on timber // //
rowing bright // // flames leap // //
sparks take flight // // growing bright // // throw on timber // //
ny more.  // // The top of the table is
sparse , but every second period or layer, // // like the bard from Ja
/ with apples, nor with pilaf.  I can’t
speak // // for Suliman, but I am well of love.  // //
hilosophy?  // // Voices, ipods, phones
speak out— // // add to the road’s cacophony.  // // Dialectic // //
ck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods, phones
speak out— // // add to the road’s cacophony.  // // Through air and
er, shout, // // voices, ipods, phones
speak out.  // // So many people talking: can we doubt // // that so
e // // tried to sleep // // tried to
speak // // tried to think // // tried to understand // // tried to
find.  // // — // // A writer read, a
speaker heard, // // at every word a choice has made.  // // Those th
ver, his // // poetry too to posterity
speaks ; // // Joyce has his Liffey whose recirculation keeps // // F
ertheless // // ten thousand different
species rise and fall // // and rise again.  Great populations press /
// // Reading a map now, I have to use
spectacles .  // // Carry them with me wherever I wander… but // // he
then joining an easier // // path with
spectacular views over Bassenthwaite.  // // Walking down quickly, not
Grow.  // // Push forward.  // // Build
speed .  // // Build power.  // // Forge ahead.  // // Spread.  // // R
Shrink.  // // Drop back.  // // Build
speed .  // // Build power.  // // Pull in.  // // Merge.  // // Retrac
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 // // and c
first scratch // // clothes on // //
spell broken // // sleep gone // // in motion // // sun on skin //
fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast
spell .  // // That book will set you puzzles which propel // // your
Fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast
spell .  // // That book will take you o’er a stormy fell // // with h
bulations // // of all the words their
spiders ’ crawls can find.  // // — // // A writer read, a speaker hea
/ seeking new ground to conquer.  // //
Spiders ’ webs among the undergrowth.  // // Look closely: precise ang
her part of the bush.  Take care not to
spill // // your precious hoard (I mean the ones you will deliver //
/ // From the lamp on the landing it’s
spilling , seeping // // under the door, // // sending delicate tendr
r Chōka // // Yellow neon light // //
spilling through plate-glass windows // // across the pavement.  // /
went to Gloucester // // for a summer
spin — // // and liked a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-white wa
a perambulation whenever it got to the
spin // // part of its washing cycle.  The other, the noise // // th
maiden, heart aglow // // will sit and
spin , so full of grace, // // far away and long ago.  // // A fairy,
that blue-green ball of stuff?  // // —
spinning around one of the hot yellow bits // // way out here in the
emoter backwaters // // of the western
spiral arm (which will never be fashionable).  // // See the slime on
s grows still, fades away.  // // Empty
spiral hardness rests // // on the sea-bed.  Forever?  // // Another,
atterns form—until // // an accidental
spiral sequence finds // // that it can make itself again, and fill /
// —cool!  // // There are some lovely
spirals down there now.  // // Let’s have a closer look at this one he
tness grows, hardness grows too, // //
spirals round itself, trumpet-like.  // // Can this go on forever?  //
.  // // Look closely: precise angular
spirals // // strung around precise radial anchor lines.  // // Acros
ins to go // // the clouds are low and
spitting rain.  // // The light is dimming now.  // // Further north t
ut by their piss and snot and sweat and
spittle .  // // Oh, people spread!  Quick, guys, an ecstasy of fumblin
// // This stuff to the floor— // //
splatter !  // // I said more!  More!  More!  // // A plate to the floo
living in zen.  // // Gloves are a many-
splendoured thing.  Gloves make the world go round, and all’s fair in
/ There was a young man writhing in the
splinters of the shattered window pane.  // // There was an overcrowde
// // They rattle round, and link, and
split , and fight.  // // No voices in the almost-silence that I hear,
ll pierces through the brain // // and
splits apart Edwardian disdain.  // // Man and drill are two, and now
I am toppling over him // // crashing,
splitting , breaking.  // // I am lost.  The one behind // // will fin
// // that even if my audience hear it
spoken aloud rather than seeing it on the page they will certainly kno
us to a hidden jewel lake, // // soup-
spoon -shaped, still half-covered // // in slowly melting ice.  On the
/ // More!  I want some more!  // // A
spoon to the floor— // // clatter!  // // No!  Another more!  // // T
on its way from the sun, // // bright
spot , turn white hot and burn.  // //
// from the sun.  // // Bright // //
spot // // turn // // white // // hot // // and burn.  // // Tanka
lling // // the drying sand with muddy
spots bespeckled.  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // //
the water may be poured out through the
spout . // //
er possible fill the kettle through the
spout as this will help to reduce the amount of limescale that builds
// Tumbling through rocks with rainbow
spray , // // coursing the straits and the hollows, // // meandering
grow broader and taller, // // sweeps
spray from our tops, // // drives us ever onward.  // // Where are we
And when it hits just right // // the
spray rises a mile into the air // // (or so it seems to me), to cras
needs.  // // This time, the bug’s not
spread by rats and fleas // // but by their piss and snot and sweat a
good: // // it's cancer; but it hasn’t
spread .  // // No balance here.  The bad // // is bad in absolute, wh
the roaming bees.  // // Feel the fire. 
Spread out a green canopy // // in the warming sunlight.  Soak up the
nd sweat and spittle.  // // Oh, people
spread !  Quick, guys, an ecstasy of fumbling, // // building the clum
Build power.  // // Forge ahead.  // //
Spread .  // // Reach.  // // Slacken.  // // Settle.  // // Pause.  //
the post, // // the white-painted sign
spreadeagled on the road.  // // What do they know, the rain and the a
l inside the house.) // // The bracken
spreads across a gentle slope // // towards the river.  A line of anc
sometimes destroy.  Did I really // //
spring from the hands of the great Praxiteles?  // // I cannot now rec
x but have the same effect.  // // On a
spring high tide, I would be floating // // at the height of the mars
ls // // through forests waking to the
spring // // intersect or fork.  Some of these meeting-points // //
eandering across meadows, // // from a
spring it flows to the sea.  // //
re full of streams, // // swollen with
spring melt.  But an old pine forest // // always provides a bridge. 
// // buds into the waxing light, the
spring rain.  Throw open // // the fire-coloured temptations, welcome
where does it all begin?  // // From a
spring .  // // Tell me, if you will, how it goes.  // // It flows.  //
ys must needs // // be relocated every
spring , the charts // // redrawn).  // // The line of pebble-dunes pr
/ // some dormant thing would wake and
sprout new growth.  // // And thus it was.  Just past the London Eye,
r the cliff.  The wind // // whips the
spume // // into irregular clots, picks them up, // // and strews th
er, the noise // // that it made as it
spun , a rhythmic staccato juddering // // with a touch of syncopation
ea // // Lose pay cap, // // O palace
spy .  // // Lay pop case // // plea as copy.  // // Ape calypso // /
e author, he whose life the fates would
squander — // // such richness in his music did he render // // for a
orkshire coast // // for the requisite
square -bashing.  And then when he ships out, // // back to mother, in
far as he went.  // // In Friday Market
square // // Jacob van Artevelde makes an expansive gesture // // to
Square mile // // Farringdon Without (north side) // //
and a bit.  There is an area about 2ft
square of brush marks in a darker paint, made by a house-painter clean
t on // // a corner of a tree-bordered
square .  // // The second had one window, rather high— // // from the
dows // // A corner of a tree-bordered
square // // trees around the edges of a field // // the trees in th
lemon, lime: // // equatorially // //
squeeze the juice // // leave the pith and pips.  // // Papaya, melon
t the fuzzy end of the lollipop and the
squeezed out tube of toothpaste // // that the saxophonist left behin
// As you stare down the line till you
squint // // with the cold seeping into each joint, // // it must be
ts // // One to five million:  Gulf of
St Lawrence // // Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan Island; Cape Sable
ntrol is as strong as can be // // and
stable —they will make for me.  // // But when my support // // is cau
// that it made as it spun, a rhythmic
staccato juddering // // with a touch of syncopation.  // //
he shelf above.  The boxes and tins are
stacked // // in increasing disorder along the back // // of the ben
ry line // // the Bard created for the
stage // // by the best actors of the age.  // // Thank you for calli
nd screws.  At some more ordered // //
stage of my life (certainly long before // // the children arrived) I
Stages // // Hanging garden.  Send a letter.  // // Fresh clay tablet,
ague at bay.  // // Yet someone here is
staggering and stumbling— // // how in hell did he evade the line?  //
beyond, adding scratches // // to the
stains already covering your fingers // // and your palms.  Sometimes
; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // // courts;
staircases ; playing fields // // One to five hundred:  Block plan //
no great shakes // // in the marriage
stakes .  // //
, ink.  // // Branch post office, penny
stamp .  // // I love you.  // // Papered bedsit.  Send a letter.  // //
of paper, ballpoint pen.  // // Find a
stamp , street-corner box.  // // I love you.  // // Wi-fi café.  Send a
f a clock.  Another dial, // // from a
stand -on weight scale.  A device // // for demonstrating electricity
// // —a Schubert piano piece.) // //
Standing around the Cambridge crematorium, // // dressed for the occa
On a New York subway:  Judith and me
standing as there are no seats; she is 4 or 5 months pregnant at the t
around, // // walking and talking and
standing still—and I, // // reaching the meeting point under the brid
hollow holds // // a real live snake,
standing up and hissing // // at our approach.  We turn tail and flee
South London
standoff // // An ordinary suburban junction.  // // Narrow side road
rapped and redesigned.  The house still
stands .) // //
size 6, size 8, large.  // // Beside it
stands another of much later age: // // a plastic chest with small, c
cross the years.  A copper beech // //
stands out, a clump of pears whose fruit // // is hard as stone.  (Bu
stately ram, great curved horns // //
stands tense, alert and staring.  A few // // feet away, a sheep, cow
or ten-year-old imagination.  // // It
stands within a grove of trees, a very few // // of which I can disce
lliterative lines—at best // // a semi-
stanza —and then to cease?  It seems // // perverse—the more because t
uts and washers, // // flooring nails,
staples , cuphooks, clouts // // masonry nails, screw-eyes, picture ho
ime, an instant dash: // // a shooting
star .  // // To the sharp senses, nature has many sharp lines.  // //
Parallel lines // // As you
stare down the line till you squint // // with the cold seeping into
// Some object or event which holds her
stare ?  // // Or is it just the clarity of light, the glowing // // g
ed horns // // stands tense, alert and
staring .  A few // // feet away, a sheep, cowering // // —and a lamb
n the light of a fire, // // and faint
starlight from space // // reflected in inky water, // // the cool n
// // † as we step through the double-
starred list of the actinoids // // ‡ by means of reactors or collide
urse we’d like to understand // // the
stars and planets overhead // // as well as actions close at hand //
e sun and the clouds by day, // // the
stars and the darkness by night, // // the ocean, the blue-green-grey
k on the wet beach // // and watch the
stars emerge.  // // Sharp dots; but watch and do not blink.  // // In
m yesterday.  Must be somewhere.  // //
Start again, from the beginning, by the door.  // // Tables, shelves,
ll after dark has come.  // // Should I
start crawling the miles remaining, or // // should I stay put in the
dd years before // // (well before the
start of the first world war).  // // Fifty yards across the park at t
t seems exceeding wide, // // as if to
start out on a voyage, a full round-Britain trip.  // // I’ll need a t
s bracket our shared domain: // // the
start , the lobby of a Greek hotel // // in summer, where we met and a
Twice daily // //
Start .  // // Tiptoe.  // // Probe.  // // Grow.  // // Push forward. 
en.  // // Settle.  // // Pause.  // //
Start .  // // Tiptoe.  // // Retrace.  // // Shrink.  // // Drop back.
ng-abandoned projects.) // // This one
started with an almighty bang // // —thought it was going to be a dis
s.  // // The eighth layer has not been
started yet, so the only thing to do about // // it is to turn back a
// // Recipe for starting a sourdough
starter .  // //   // // In the California gold rush of 1849, and agai
s would carry with them their sourdough
starters , carefully protected in pouches around their necks or attache
to go // // // // // // Recipe for
starting a sourdough starter.  // //   // // In the California gold r
pre-war Aga, they will emerge // // a
startling deep red, and taste delicious.) // // Another tree, perhaps
we walk back // // against the wind it
starts to snow.  // // A snowdrift forms against the wire brush // //
Stasis // // In stasis, what’s to do?  // // Can we not // // find s
Stasis // // In
stasis , what’s to do?  // // Can we not // // find some way to move,
south horizon // // container ships in
stately progress pass // // destined for Harwich or for Felixstowe.  /
nd other plants.  // // On one // // a
stately ram, great curved horns // // stands tense, alert and staring
n the shelves.  Later, the local rumour
states // // that the train is carrying nuclear waste; at the time //
day by train!  Vast hall // // of city
station , noisy, full // // of people rushing there and back.  // // T
click-clack click-clack.  // // Country
station : we clamber down.  // // The whistle blows, the train moves o
ling // // boats are stranded at their
stations , waiting // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // //
switching favours at each turn.  // // (
Stay close to the carved bank // // for the deeper channel.) // // I
// // another day.”  // // And yet you
stay // // inside my head, and take away my will // // to find a way
or Suliman, from his pilaf.  // // But
stay me not with raisins nor // // with flagons, for I am well of lov
ropriately, Suliman’s pilaf.  // // But
stay me not with them, nor comfort me // // with apples, for I am wel
day // // brighter now // // here to
stay // // morning glow // // time to rise // // feeling slow // /
the miles remaining, or // // should I
stay put in the hope of a rescuer?  // // Slowly I realise the pain is
ay // // And fewer still will pause or
stay // // To gaze down on the ruins gray // // That scar remote Sha
// of David’s thick black hair, // //
staying in place until at home // // the small gas fire has warmed th
f the older ones.  // // The wind grows
steady and purposeful.  // // We form into rows and columns across the
-winds bring // // The tide begins its
steady , slow accretion // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // in p
r the two ones I must cheat. // // … a
steal …  // // Rage, // // rage // // against // // the dying // //
oying our comfort’s as rotten // // as
stealing a library book.  // // Five of our cushions are missing.  //
aken creeps, and slumbers not: // // a
stealth invasion’s getting off the ground.  // // Up on the surface an
er than me— // // a great big monster,
steaming , black.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // /
im. // // … and one poet // // Thomas
Stearns Eliot // // wrote poetry well, but // // was no great shakes
returns from work // // in a Sheffield
steel mill.  // // Daughter moves away to teach, and then // // to ma
e first world war) // // in Sheffield,
steel town.  // // Mother once ran a fish-and-chip shop.  // // A youn
elting ice.  On the far side // // the
steep snow-covered slopes rise up // // to rampart rock walls, knife-
will hold my weight.’  // // But every
step it drops you down // // into soft snow, up to the tops // // of
asia // // Kuril’skiye Ostrova; Kirgiz
Step ; Karakoram Ra // // countries; seas // // One to ten million: 
ter out // // and stop. // // † as we
step through the double-starred list of the actinoids // // ‡ by mean
and fine and bitter cold.  // // Every
step , // // your foot upon the crust, you think // // ‘This time, it
ruct // // my life.  // // Most of the
steps are small, // // following, if not a line, // // at least some
mestone crags above; // // descend the
steps to reach the valley floor— // // to leave behind, for now, the
istily, the shape of things: // // the
steps which, added up, construct // // my life.  // // Most of the st
uit // // is hard as stone.  (But when
stewed overnight // // in the oven of the pre-war Aga, they will emer
// The small bowl of wedding reception
stews bean bubble, // // The taro rolls up an incense.  // // The imp
images last, // // but notched on the
stick // // as the day slides into the mist.  // // The long night’s
ing in the shapes, and using a charcoal
stick , makes some small additions.  And it becomes a scene, a group of
l passing by // // may be notched on a
stick .  // // Not yet to be fixed // // while the long night’s images
// a sharp wall of sound.  // // Later
still , after the storm has passed // // lie back on the wet beach //
// // walking and talking and standing
still —and I, // // reaching the meeting point under the bridge // //
// // is ending.  I suppose tomorrow’s
still // // another day // // to find a way.  // //
Béla Bartók and Frank Bridge // // are
still at college // // Sergei Prokofiev and Carl Orf // // still at
// Sergei Prokofiev and Carl Orf // //
still at school // // Aaron Copland and Kurt Weill // // in their co
Once in a while // // a perfect burst
still catches at my tastebuds // // and drags me back again.  // //
of the pastures and onto the fell side,
still // // climbing the contours and catching my breath again.  // /
Shingle Street // // The sea is never
still .  Even in my sleep // // I hear the ground-swell gently break a
is go on forever?  // // Softness grows
still , fades away.  // // Empty spiral hardness rests // // on the se
/ has a source // // of pure water: a
still .  // // Garden shed // // with a still?  Local // // excise of
n jewel lake, // // soup-spoon-shaped,
still half-covered // // in slowly melting ice.  On the far side //
ugged moor // // sharp mountain // //
still lake // // resting lake // // rustling forest // // tumbling
oast.  // // The wonder is that you can
still laugh.  // //
still.  // // Garden shed // // with a
still ?  Local // // excise officer takes to // // dropping by unanno
Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge when it was
still managed by Jim Ede (he would pick up a Brancusi stone head, or a
ere scrapped and redesigned.  The house
still stands.) // //
// to feel your ever-present absence,
still // // to find a way.  // // I hear you say, // // “But life is
across the valley sound // // through
still , warm air, // // clear to my vantage point on higher ground.  //
across the valley sound // // through
still , warm air.  // // On the top deck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods,
high above Borrowdale in what was then
still Westmorland.  It wasn’t very environmentally friendly of us, but
walk the brambled way // // And fewer
still will pause or stay // // To gaze down on the ruins gray // //
hrough clear and cool and quiet evening
stillness // // on evening tide.  // // Decisions and revisions and r
rime, // // the muzakal banality which
stings .  // // Even I, atheist, find some of them sublime, // // Brit
ken, // // Olive dish dried meat floss
stir fries a leaf mustard.  // // The small bowl of wedding reception
fragile bone.  // // The peasant family
stir -fries four // // Butterfish cooked to no sauce.  // // Young flo
of might-have-been, // // a different
stitch to cast?  // // No, I’m glad we did not meet // // before the
// // equatorially: // // no pips, no
stone .  // // Avocado: // // pole-to-pole // // all around the stone
m Dale Journey // // From Ilkley’s old
stone bridge I trace a path // // against the stream, back up the riv
of pears whose fruit // // is hard as
stone .  (But when stewed overnight // // in the oven of the pre-war A
by Jim Ede (he would pick up a Brancusi
stone head, or a small cut brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it
// makes his work lasting by carving in
stone — // // me, I’m not looking for such immortality, // // life af
ango: // // find the flat sides of the
stone // // slice alongside // // almost pole to almost pole // //
the house // // of weathered Cotswold
stone .  // // The box and holly // // were magnificent, but could not
// pole-to-pole // // all around the
stone // // twist to separate.  // // Orange, lemon, lime: // // equ
ilt and lit the fire // // on the dark
stones , and planted fireworks // // in the dark edges beyond the flic
// on hard, unyielding // // rocks and
stones , // // falls back under my feet.  // // No time, no time.  //
Did they rage around me // // where I
stood for all men to see?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // Cities fl
allow the lines to peter out // // and
stop . // // † as we step through the double-starred list of the actin
// and your palms.  Sometimes you must
stop // // to disentangle a particularly tenacious tendril // // bef
called Michael Finnegan— // // crowds
stopped by his strange shenanigan // // called out all their kith and
// // at bay the frights night has in
store .  // // Whether I’m lying awake or sleeping // // or floating h
o, // // in a flat calm air.  A winter
storm // // brings wild mountains of water crashing down // // to re
ply erase them.  // // Four years ago a
storm demolished // // the dunes on the beach across the creek // //
of sound.  // // Later still, after the
storm has passed // // lie back on the wet beach // // and watch the
e the trees against the blind.  // // A
storm is raging as I lie abed, // // whipped wide awake by what the t
East Hills.  // // A once in a century
storm , // // that was thought to be.  // // So perhaps they will //
// running the gauntlet of the winter
storm .  // // The tide is high, and every wave tries hard // // to br
Newlyn harbour wall.  // // One day, a
storm will // // simply erase them.  // // Four years ago a storm dem
cannot now recall.  // // Up there are
storms and calms, // // earthquake-waves and volcanic dust, // // so
re colours, more darknesses // // more
storms , gales, lightning bolts // // more days of sun or rain or pass
f fallen trees, fresh from the winter’s
storms // // or long since stripped of bark, criss-cross // // the f
.  // // That book will take you o’er a
stormy fell // // with her who to her lover’s side makes haste:  // /
own // // beneath the piles.  Then one
stormy night // // it pulls the final prop.  A hundred yards // // o
Story // // —Tell me.  // // —I am conceived by the wind, the wild wi
actuals // // // // You all know the
story that once // // I received a slight knock on the bonce.  // //
ies into the night.  // // The paraffin
stove // // casts patterns of light on the // // high bedroom ceilin
-and-apple pie // // —the ones you ate
straight off the bush are saved forever).  // // At the end of summer,
// Behind us, in the wood, // // tall
straight pines reach for the sky, // // dark trunks against the blue,
/ // or antithesis.  // // Have to cut
straight to synthesis.  // // Tried // // hard // // to write // //
// A quarter of a mile or more // //
straight up // // the Mediterranean waves roll on.  // // How many ye
h the scents the sea-winds bring // //
straining at their lines.  The bows face seaward // // Hear the marsh
with rainbow spray, // // coursing the
straits and the hollows, // // meandering across meadows, // // from
he marsh-birds calling // // boats are
stranded at their stations, waiting // // Breath the scents the sea-w
Finnegan— // // crowds stopped by his
strange shenanigan // // called out all their kith and kin—but // //
fire to burn the string.  // // What a
strange thing, to swallow some string!  // // He swallowed the string
/ // and the Beatles’ first LP; // //
strangely , though, not sex but fire).  // // See this: // // the larg
ow recall.  // // No matter!  Now, in a
stranger place, a colder clime, // // with no arms, one leg, no tail,
Objective // // An exobladder.  // //
Strapped to my thigh // // with elastic and velcro.  // // Below, a n
o Paris // // Manuel de Falla and Igor
Stravinsky .  // // A turn, a period of change?  // // Well, yes.  In a
e was a gun.  // // There was a bullet,
stray .  // // There was a young man writhing in the splinters of the s
…  // // I try to listen, but my musing
strays .  // // His voice is lively, gestures wide.  // // There is muc
ridge I trace a path // // against the
stream , back up the river Wharfe, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Stri
oast // // dark forest // // flashing
stream // // bright sea // // rugged moor // // sharp mountain //
// // close forest // // by lake and
stream // // by forest and moor // // from sea to mountain to sea //
ut the ledges, // // While between the
stream -floor ridges // // Now a bottom-feeder dredges // // Through
e moor // // green forest // // clear
stream // // grey mountain // // jagged mountain // // choppy sea /
thousand-year lake // // thousand-year
stream // // narrow stream // // open moor // // deep lake // // h
// thousand-year stream // // narrow
stream // // open moor // // deep lake // // high mountain // // w
// // tumbling mountain // // running
stream // // rambling moor // // changing sea // // blue sea // //
ntain // // choppy sea // // swirling
stream // // smooth lake // // dense forest // // rough moor // //
Ever // // Tennison’s
stream , we know, goes on for ever, his // // poetry too to posterity
k, criss-cross // // the forest floor,
streams and all.  // // A seven-mile climb // // brings us to a hidde
w channels, torrents, // // tarns, and
streams slow-flowing, under the sky.  // // Trees and bushes, shrubs a
to guess.  // // The woods are full of
streams , // // swollen with spring melt.  But an old pine forest //
// Across the tiny front garden and the
street // // a tee-junction, and a line of sight // // along a tree-
/ // (Down the slope to the end of the
street and right, // // the line bridges over the road.) Sometimes a
leaves in the leaded gully.  // // The
street between the houses, the streetlight, // // the sign on the wal
er, ballpoint pen.  // // Find a stamp,
street -corner box.  // // I love you.  // // Wi-fi café.  Send a letter
eyes // // into the distance down the
street .  I could not see // // what he saw…  // // Inspired?  Why sho
a scattering // // of people in a city
street , shop-window-browsing.  // // A group, gathered around and gazi
Shingle
Street // // The sea is never still.  Even in my sleep // // I hear
// the park and all the houses down the
street .  // // We joined the local protest, but to small // // effect
// The street between the houses, the
streetlight , // // the sign on the wall, the sign on the post, // //
Cury; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // //
streets ; alleys; cycle paths // // One to two thousand:  Jesus College
ocal train to Ghent: canals and cobbled
streets // // and beer and chocolate shops // // and churches, churc
away.  // // What country lanes or city
streets — // // and who were my companions, pray?  // // Old friends,
// of a London terrace in a triangle of
streets .  // // From the bed the window was hidden // // but from the
// against their boundaries.  The vital
stress // // expresses change.  Some variant has found // // how good
ng slow // // rub eyes // // yawn and
stretch // // blue skies // // legs itch // // must get on // // f
ere // // trees, grass and flowers can
stretch shore to shore.  // // Of bridges traversing the Thames here i
egular clots, picks them up, // // and
strews them downwind.  // // The cliff // // is of course ephemeral,
Wharfe, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the
Strid beyond, // // and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my wand // //
// // occasionally not breed true.  Now
strife : // // the different dittoes must compete for life.  // // Ano
// tiny light // // twigs catch // //
strike match // // flame unfurls // // twigs catch // // smoke curl
Bonfire // // Dark night // //
strike match // // tiny light // // twigs catch // // strike match
e round the tentacles of zeta // // by
striking gamma from consideration // // and making an approximate rel
middle is // // as long as a piece of
string .  // //
wn pipe, clunch, setting plaster // //
string , cord, matchstick, tallow, vardo // // cromarty, ringwold or s
/ What a strange thing, to swallow some
string !  // // He swallowed the string to catch the hook.  // // That’
) // // those wooden toggles, loops of
string .  // // I must confess to having owned // // long long ago, th
as chosen the music, // // a Beethoven
string quartet.  // // Afterwards Colin and I go down to the basement
A short treatise on
string theory // // The beginning is the end and // // the end is th
ow some string!  // // He swallowed the
string to catch the hook.  // // That’s not in the book, to swallow a
/ // He swallowed the fire to burn the
string .  // // What a strange thing, to swallow some string!  // // He
// We wire from scratch, // // plumb,
strip everything: // // wallpaper from walls, // // distemper from c
room of our house in Peckham, the walls
stripped and undecorated, but with marks and signs accumulated over a
he winter’s storms // // or long since
stripped of bark, criss-cross // // the forest floor, streams and all
nto four or more sections, with plywood
strips // // carefully cut and glued.  And labelled the front— // //
rds are good for finger-fiddling // //
stroking , tickling, searching in—but // // there was an old man calle
malignant.  // // ‘Malignant’ seems too
strong a word.  // // I’m sure it doesn’t really want // // to kill m
e, until I can mark its end with such a
strong and obvious rhyme // // that even if my audience hear it spoke
n the continent // // My control is as
strong as can be // // and stable—they will make for me.  // // But w
// Around the river mouth the tides run
strong .  // // Channels and banks of shingle shift and melt, // // fo
amble sends great arcing shoots, // //
strong curves lined with jagged thorns, // // seeking new ground to c
ion.  // // The wind feeds us, makes us
strong .  // // Occasionally, I catch glimpses // // of the ranks ahea
ling // // against the current pushing
strongly townward.  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // //
losely: precise angular spirals // //
strung around precise radial anchor lines.  // // Across the channel,
A small Victorian terrace house // //
stuccoed and flat-fronted.  // // No electricity— // // gas lighting
y-footing is past.  // // It can’t be a
student or fellow— // // the thief’s much too cunning for that.  // /
Ethel Sargant, botanist // // (Girton
student 1880s) // // builds a lab in her garden // // in Reigate, on
ide?  // // See that blue-green ball of
stuff ? // // —spinning around one of the hot yellow bits // // way o
!  // // No!  Another more!  // // This
stuff to the floor— // // splatter!  // // I said more!  More!  More!
quickly, not paying attention, I // //
stumble , fall heavily forward and land with my // // shin on a knife-
// Yet someone here is staggering and
stumbling — // // how in hell did he evade the line?  // // Oh bugger!
s fading now.  // // Politicians on the
stump // // make promises-to-go // // inspired by our local Trump.  /
Themselves // //
Stupidity , I think the gods themselves // // will find in all the boo
/ in something approaching or aping the
style of that wonderfully eccentric twentieth-century American poet, /
end a letter.  // // Fresh clay tablet,
stylus , scribe.  // // Entrust to messenger.  // // I love you.  // //
a tube, a valve, a smaller tube.  // //
Subjective // // An invasion of my privacy.  // // An assault on my d
d // // the other two in place.  // //
Subjective // // Discomfort.  Bother.  // // Irritation.  Nuisance.  /
tive // // Yellow liquid flows.  // //
Subjective /objective // // Tap left open.  // // Oh bugger!  // // Th
// Even I, atheist, find some of them
sublime — // // Britten’s Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // // If I
// Even I, atheist, find some of them
sublime , // // Britten’s Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // // What
// even I, atheist, find some of them
sublime .  // // Must just ignore the shop-committed crime, // // the
st-silence that I hear, // // the soft
subliminal sibilance of night.  // // December sounds // // Even I, a
st-silence that I hear, // // the soft
subliminal sibilance of night, // // no words, no human language in m
// Camera in bag for Mon // // Did I
submit tax form??  // // Check L’s dob—70 next b/day?  // // Dentist a
er?  // // Slowly I realise the pain is
subsiding , the // // leg was not broken, and after a while I can //
outh London standoff // // An ordinary
suburban junction.  // // Narrow side road curves to join // // a ben
sturbs.  The line // // mostly carries
suburban trains; more rarely, // // carriages decked in the blue and
to it. // // On a New York
subway :  Judith and me standing as there are no seats; she is 4 or 5 m
n of that space.  // // And so, for two
successive summer holidays, // // we chopped and sawed and dug and th
word-filled well; // // a book should
suck you into its embrace.  // // Fall, fall into the writer’s well-ca
// —and a lamb, sensing danger // //
suckling .  // // On the other // // the source of danger // // a wol
g across the glass.  // // We jump at a
sudden sound-blast— // // another train on the next track.  // // The
owing the bend, // // the curlew rises
suddenly , // // screeching at my invasion of its space.  // // Two pl
s one I can’t find.  // // How could it
suddenly vanish?  // // It hasn’t just fallen behind.  // // Two of ou
the wild Suffolk heath, // // the wild
Suffolk blackberries // // of my childhood remain forever perfect, //
s // // becomes a daily ritual.  // //
Suffolk , circa 1958 // // After the floods of fifty-three // // they
ometimes see in lines across // // the
Suffolk countryside, each tall bare trunk // // gnarled and twisted b
// or wild winds of autumn, on the wild
Suffolk heath, // // the wild Suffolk blackberries // // of my child
months later, we met again // // on a
Suffolk shingle beach.  // // In November the days were short, // //
Covehithe,
Suffolk // // South wind today.  So the breakers // // come at an an
/ // so briefly glimpsed, make my muse
suggest // // just three alliterative lines—at best // // a semi-sta
this equation, // // then follow that
suggestion // // to make the beta, gamma, delta link. // // 1 back: 
in languid attitude, // // in birthday
suit and little else arrayed?  // // I think he’d add a note to his re
ait a little longer, // // then follow
suit ; the oystercatcher // // busily foraging across the bank // //
Capricorn
suite // // In other news // // // Five days after Charlie Hebdo, I
r with pilaf.  I can’t speak // // for
Suliman , but I am well of love.  // //
ons might indeed // // distract me, or
Suliman , from his pilaf.  // // But stay me not with raisins nor // /
mas cake, // // or more appropriately,
Suliman’s pilaf.  // // But stay me not with them, nor comfort me //
comforting // // as any fruit, though
Suliman’s pilaf // // is real comfort food.  But comfort me not // /
re saved forever).  // // At the end of
summer , and in the first mists // // or wild winds of autumn, on the
es // // a bracken-covered heath.  The
summer fronds // // rise far above our heads.  In this bright green /
pace.  // // And so, for two successive
summer holidays, // // we chopped and sawed and dug and then set fire
those last days of pain, // // another
summer , home in Camberwell.  // // Between the endpoints there were ma
Foster went to Gloucester // // for a
summer spin— // // and liked a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-w
t, the lobby of a Greek hotel // // in
summer , where we met and all was well; // // the end, the moment life
After lunch, a walk // // through the
summer’s brown bracken // // that covers the heath.  // // On magic c
w only the wind and the rain // // the
sun and the clouds by day, // // the stars and the darkness by night,
ce is lively, gestures wide.  // // The
sun and wind upon the trees outside…  // // I try to listen, but my mu
us away // // Just feel the breathless
sun beat down // // Way-hay, blow us away // // And seek out any sha
on the ramparts // // looking seaward,
sun behind us, low, // // yellow light-beams almost horizontal; // /
// tall grasses glowing in the morning
sun // // below and to the right.  And rising left // // the Cape Co
// trapped on its way // // from the
sun .  // // Bright // // spot // // turn // // white // // hot //
ray.  // // Trapped on its way from the
sun , // // bright spot, turn white hot and burn.  // //
sive gesture // // towards the setting
sun .  // // Go west, young man?  No, this is about // // a century an
/ between the marshes and the sea.  The
sun // // is low ahead of us, the sky is clear.  // // Across the woo
/ // fire-edged, blots out the setting
sun .  // // Later, the clouds amass: // // watch now: if you blink yo
dark, but the raging fire // // of the
sun marks passing time.  // // Far down below, the earth // // is mos
// sleep gone // // in motion // //
sun on skin // // door open // // breathe in.  // // Now begin.  //
tside her window, warming // // in the
sun ?  Or maybe nothing—maybe she // // is pensive, dreaming, lost in
es, lightning bolts // // more days of
sun or rain or passing cloud // // more meetings with old friends //
Repeat twice daily.  // // (Not by the
sun // // —use moontime // // instead).  // //
Sunburn // // Sonnet // // Bend the light // // just so // // abov
ast walk devised by Wainwright, you get
sunburnt on the right side of your face only.  As Judith had broken in
y // // in darker wood.  Clear morning
sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse inside.  A woman leans // /
le in the window, looks // // out into
sunlight , over grass, towards // // some distant point outside the pi
ut a green canopy // // in the warming
sunlight .  Soak up the rays and the air.  // // Transform the coloured
two // // to the village shop to seek
supplies // // becomes a daily ritual.  // // Suffolk, circa 1958 //
ey will make for me.  // // But when my
support // // is caught badly short // // I’ll just have to ask ‘Whe
// // gnarled and twisted by the wind,
supports // // a wild, tufted crown—quite unlike // // the planted f
components.  // // A pair of cast-iron
supports for an old // // high-level lavatory cistern, wonderfully //
be good.  That’s good // // enough, I
suppose .  // // Battle lines // // // // // // // // Somewhere
// And now today // // is ending.  I
suppose tomorrow’s still // // another day // // to find a way.  //
nt’ seems too strong a word.  // // I’m
sure it doesn’t really want // // to kill me.  // // Like the asteroi
the kettle on the cordless base making
sure it is positioned correctly. // // Plug in and switch
/ // or floating half in half out, I’m
sure // // it’ll last forever, the light that’s leaking // // under
a slight knock on the bonce.  // // For
sure my laws must // // have forever been lost // // if the apple ha
ctricity. // // Always make
sure that the lid is properly firmly closed. // // Place t
of our cushions is missing— // // I’m
sure that there’s one I can’t find.  // // How could it suddenly vanis
boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s
sure to produce a fine plan.  // // We also need money—of course priva
k inside. // // grey John Major // //
surely had a wager // // that he could without worry // // take the
aught // // Which, come the dawn, will
surely quickly pass.  // // I’d paint it for you if I had the art, //
London, we’ve // // just thirty three—
surely room for one more.  // // Now it happens my old friend is crown
pole // // itself and four-inch rings
surely to be found // // elsewhere in the garage).  // // The bench w
etting off the ground.  // // Up on the
surface and for far around, // // another creature wakes; great cogwh
eper motivation // // underneath their
surface combinations.  // // Now Brin and Page build index tabulations
ster-catchers, gulls // // compete for
surface scraps.  The beach is good // // for all.  The redshanks, god
Place the cordless base on a level firm
surface . // // Where ever possible fill the kettle through
// The light is failing now.  // // The
surgeons trying to cut us off // // from continental flow // // seem
// // It is the space in which I must
survive ; // // It’s through this land, this country that I go.  // //
ion // // is the space in which I must
survive , // // with Frida as my muse and inspiration— // // that rea
ter, scavenge, seek // // their winter
sustenance .  Out in the bay // // a seal watches us, then flips away,
n walked his wild way // // alone.  In
Swale - and Wensleydale // // they passed the following day.  // // Of
hook.  // // That’s not in the book, to
swallow a hook.  // // He swallowed the hook to recover the net.  // /
the net.  // // You’d scarcely bet he’d
swallow a net.  // // He swallowed the net to trap the hat.  // // Res
string.  // // What a strange thing, to
swallow some string!  // // He swallowed the string to catch the hook.
ff the rain.  // // What an odd game—to
swallow the rain!  // // He swallowed the rain to put out the fire.  //
allowed his hat.  // // Just fancy that—
swallowed his hat!  // // He swallowed his hat to fend off the rain.  /
that // // There was an old fellow who
swallowed his hat.  // // Just fancy that—swallowed his hat!  // // He
fancy that—swallowed his hat!  // // He
swallowed his hat to fend off the rain.  // // What an odd game—to swa
expire from swallowing fire.  // // He
swallowed the fire to burn the string.  // // What a strange thing, to
the book, to swallow a hook.  // // He
swallowed the hook to recover the net.  // // You’d scarcely bet he’d
rcely bet he’d swallow a net.  // // He
swallowed the net to trap the hat.  // // Restart for that.  // //
odd game—to swallow the rain!  // // He
swallowed the rain to put out the fire.  // // You’d think he’d expire
hing, to swallow some string!  // // He
swallowed the string to catch the hook.  // // That’s not in the book,
re.  // // You’d think he’d expire from
swallowing fire.  // // He swallowed the fire to burn the string.  //
end, almost with dying breath, // // a
swan -song, left behind for us to ponder, // // in any season.  // //
rchard, watch // // the apple clusters
sway , // // the clouds scud past, // // maybe catch // // close eno
s // // but by their piss and snot and
sweat and spittle.  // // Oh, people spread!  Quick, guys, an ecstasy
o the breakers // // come at an angle,
sweep // // along the beach.  Each // // finds its own reach up the
akes us grow broader and taller, // //
sweeps spray from our tops, // // drives us ever onward.  // // Where
perfect, // // forever simultaneously
sweet and tart, // // sharp on my mind’s tongue.  Why is it that //
en in my sleep // // I hear the ground-
swell gently break and sift, // // pushing the shingle back and forth
alling // // echoes of the distant sea-
swell rock them // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // st
away // // No wind! we wallow in the
swell // // Way-hay, blow us away // // The sails clatter as we roll
// // Some miles are ten, while others
swiftly pass.  // //
// only a fib on a cheap pun // // … a
swindle …  // // [One iamb, two anapest] feet // // [make up an eight-
agged mountain // // choppy sea // //
swirling stream // // smooth lake // // dense forest // // rough mo
ay, // // dives deep, leaving behind a
swirling wake.  // // Nearer, the lapwings forage up the beach.  // //
in a while, though, they seem // // to
switch a gear, and take a lurch // // at some acute, unmeasured angle
// // To re-boil the kettle,
switch it on again.  If the appliance has just switched off you may ha
When the water boils the kettle will
switch off automatically.  The kettle can be switched off manually by
could the last person to alight please
switch off the lights.  // // This departure has arrived.  // // The l
orrectly. // // Plug in and
switch on at the wall socket. // // Put the ON / OFF switc
ket. // // Put the ON / OFF
switch to its ‘ON’ position and the switch will illuminate. // /
be switched off manually by putting the
switch to the ‘OFF’ position. // // To re-boil the kettle,
OFF switch to its ‘ON’ position and the
switch will illuminate. // // When the water boils the ket
h off automatically.  The kettle can be
switched off manually by putting the switch to the ‘OFF’ position.
it on again.  If the appliance has just
switched off you may have to wait a few minutes before switching back
n which are mounted // // battery box,
switches , lights, buzzers, plugs // // and connecting leads.  Another
u may have to wait a few minutes before
switching back on. // // When the kettle has boiled the wa
/ // as it lays down the other, // //
switching favours at each turn.  // // (Stay close to the carved bank
/ The woods are full of streams, // //
swollen with spring melt.  But an old pine forest // // always provid
anapest] feet // // [make up an eight-
syllable ] beat.  // // Selec- // // tions will do // // for five, th
Recorded
syllables // // Together and together and together, // // Indeed the
Seven what?  // // Seven
syllables would be // // long enough for any line.  // // With a ters
as closed, // // and that was the last
syllabub of recorded time.  // // From the bottom of the barrel // //
tion of treatment— // // but that is a
symptom , not a cause.  // // A // // The fall drew blood.  // // No s
accato juddering // // with a touch of
syncopation .  // //
against and for; // // debate is all—a
synthesis can wait.  // // Voices coming from the room next door:  //
ithesis.  // // Have to cut straight to
synthesis .  // // Tried // // hard // // to write // // a fib on //
hat do not exist // // but need‡ to be
synthesised .  Some of them do not even have proper names.  // // The e