We hear the harbour traffic, Chuntering, nosing in, And feel the rise and fall On a harbour wall. At times when we sit below Some boat ties up, Bruising our fenders, Jolting our quietude. Another seems to touch and say: I am here; sleep for the night; This is my place; Sails reefed, engine still, Only the occasional creak and tap Of a mainstay in the wind. So, too, occasional words, And signs of hand or eye, Tell us to draw in, Tie up alongside. They decipher what we fathom O

Solitary trees On the hill's cap, Leaves on the turn, Civilise the space Which scours above This ancient place. Clockwise he walked Round flint and chalk, Still needing much To talk and touch. It sufficed not That he knew why The world ran dry. The blackbird sang, Flint did not lack When the pit was dug. Danger filled it in again, Grass grew and sank Under the rain. He could not trade Weapons unused, Chip the soiled flint, Wield a bone spade, Dug from the earth, Of no current

With what impudence that cloud hangs there, Complacent puff-ball figure, Sailing east with pendulous belly. But wait! A swollen darker form sails near, Glowering fatly, jaws agape, Long fish-tail lifted scorpion-like. Down here the birds continue cheeping, An ornamental wind stirs flowers, And chimneys quietly exhale. Elsewhere refugees swarm south, Haul and trample one another, But here the shadow play goes on: A cloudy duck sails backward, Scattering into gunsmoke; A sharp-

Rotten fenceposts snap In the wind this evening, Ferries pitch beyond The harbour light. A double rainbow springs From fumes of chimney...

Clod, lump, patch or fool Larding the earth when caught At last by that crocodile. No matter how oft Punch Raps his head, he is dead But...

For you who choose to commit yourselves to one another we seek appropriate words to fit this singular day like which no other of your...

The torrent could just be heard through the shuttered windows in the old stone walls of the farm where friars had kept the wine of the...

Uncle Alfred returned from India, With a carved cigarette box, Then slumped in his socks On our worn leather sofa, Within the bay window,...

The house was real is now a dream, Where we lived a while in summer light, And occasional Midi rain. At breakfast, When we rose, the...

At a quiet end of day and year, Through a sky of porcelain blue, A plane buzzed like an insect, Travelled south, drilling the distance....

When you are young there is a place For regret. The past is close And sometimes can be remedied. With age we grow bitter, recall What we...

After Grandfather went funny He took me for a morning walk, Looking neither left nor right, Straight across the Great North Road....

Four of them walked across grass Beneath and between trees And they signed to us: Do not Walk on the obvious graves, As we strolled past...

Out of the mind's mud runs A narrow road through grassland. Behind colourless trees, Riflemen point nervous guns. At the vanishing point...

Angelbread 1 Ever at the end we can find joy, edge the lawn, cut back ivy creeping round the chimney breast. Joy rose in Yeats' friend...

Brecht, back in industrial Germany, after a trip to the countryside, gazed through the sooty air at the grubby rows of houses and said,...

So it gets to you, too, Almodovar the pain in the locked spine and sadness, as you bend on the forestage listening, to your rounds of...

Clearances? Don’t like the term, a Highland chief protests in chiselled English voice. The English did not clear Scots out. They went...

Here in this quiet house all sleep, And I give time to memory, Hang a sepia photo on a wall, Pull sketches on brown paper From a drawer....

An oily smear on a still pool. A friend obliquely watching Drew close and said: How beautiful! Perceive the rainbow pattern On the...