Who has not wished, once, Twice in a lifetime, To float in yellow light and watch, Amid the ratcheting cicadas, The pomegranite tree in flame? Or wished to spend a life Beneath the morning glory On the brown-tiled roof Of a villa nesting By a limpid bay? You'd walk past olive trees on holy days Amongst the quayside restaurants And ouzo warehouses, Stand and chat to fishermen Beside a cage-filled boat. At night they might invite you To lower a cage or two, Watch them swinging

Returning with the Argonauts from Colchis, Where his lyre had quelled the wandering rocks, Lulled the waters, pacified the dragon, He married his dryad bride of universal justice Beneath the egg-shell sky which sealed out night, And tuned his song among the savage Cicones In Thrace. Unnumbered birds swarmed overhead And fishes leaped straight upward from the water Which surged from the egg-shell earth As Orpheus played. Then Death chose Eurydice. Hunted by the shepherd Arista

The resurrected towers of Ypres, Which rise on the eastern rim Of this dead-flat plain, Conjure a sepia vision Of mowings down And wipings out. Buglers sound Reveille, Cease Fire up Battle Alley, Call up the ancient hate, As every evening since, Under the cavernous gate. Centurions slump in wheelchairs, A few still stand erect, (Whisky, not beer, their elixir) Shoulder to shoulder, Jest with their neighbour. Bloody good company the lice! They nod. (Four would disappear Befor

The man from Transylvania Left his native land for good To study a new city. There he sought the beauty Of every day and every night, Statues, neon signs in fog, Couples in tight embrace, In café, metro, passageway; The gangs in flat caps, smoking, High and low-lit, together looking At what prey should pass them by Under bridges and arcades, In Paris streets and alleys. He shot The naked whores at Susy’s, Shapely, half-seen rumps and hips Of couched and crouching studio nudes

Pausing at the door, I ponder my warning: He won't recognize you As the reluctant nurse, This summer morning, Grips the door-knob, Ushers me through. A figure on a bed, The skull turned sideways, Hello. You are privileged you know - He speaks the language Of a man I knew Some years ago. Eyes stray to the window, Then to my face: What are you doing now? I wonder why he asks. His mind Assumes the daily tasks Of a world he leaves behind. I admire his tired tenacity, The strong

Douglas was dead. He died painfully, So she was told, And what was it to her, His death? Why Think of it so often? He was short, intense, His narrow head Twitched like a bird's When he talked With a slight smile, As though he heard A voice within, a truth, And what remained without Did not concern him. Few would mourn a friend. He was too far off, A man respected, Envied for his talents, His slight figure Seemed to vibrate In his large green jacket, Baggy, grey trousers, And

Unscrolling the thumb-marked photo, I hold down each reluctant end, Remember the swivelling camera, Astraddle in the old school yard, The shabby man beneath the hood Who slow-panned each September The elevated Fourth and Fifth, Prefects sitting with masters, gowned, A smirking Third Form perched behind, New boys cross-legged on the ground. Among them my brother, head-cocked, Pale, wearing his new school blazer, Behind - what was his name? - the lad Whose father’s trade in fry

On a late October day, He set back the kitchen clock, Sat and took stock Of what was to happen. Soon he entered the time In which needs continued But no one came. If one reached out, The other retreated, Repelled by nature’s grip On a body not yet old, Yet young no longer. What consolations could the future hold? He considered Michael Whose vision tunnelled As his mind expanded Over the past, the dead, The lonely and the lovely Men and women, Dawn coming up Over Darjeeling Fi

Landing on our threshold, Words on paper leave the reader Free to appropriate, Free to reconsider, To say: No, I’ll not take that, Yes, I will take this, at leisure, Alone in my room. Your Deities are not for me, Not all. They must conform With colours on my wall. Who may we take in Who will not take us in? Must we be ever cautious About the worlds that enter, Trample our disposings, Tumble our cushions? It lies within our power To cross a threshold gently, In presence and on

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 he won't lie down. The ticking clock Which pursued Captain Hook Will one day stop And Hook will find No crock of gold At his rainbow's end. The bony jester Takes by the arm The deathless pretender, Dons costume and bells And hauls him below To cure all ills. The antic Hamlet hears The songs that Yorick sang, Plays with the chops Where lips o

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 in summer light, And occasional Midi rain. At dawn the rising sun backlit A land beyond the sea's horizon; The valley rolled its homesteads Where cypresses fumed on foothills Of the Alpine porphyry. Within, they led their closing lives And entertained their guests. The son Who killed himself lived down below, But we never knew who'd lived before They watched the morning glory. It was enough to make it part Of our lives too.

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...