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-

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