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

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...

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. What use? some say, Never look over your shoulder Shun all nostalgia. Yet I resurrect the face Of this man of no account To anyone now but me. Uncle Bert loved all he did, Was always good to be with. He had large mechanic's hands, Strong, though his feet were bad, What with carrying a man's load At sixteen in that factory (His Ma gave that f

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

Speracedes Easter '91 Seeking a quiet grave In the evening light We took the lower road Where the old lavoirs stand And the stream still...

Ice-pick gone, feet first, face down, Malory slid, clawed at the scree, Skewed to a halt, humped miles up, Like a cuttle bone on a beach,...

Two figures stood waving goodbye, The man, my father, one foot in the gutter, Watery blue eyes more apt to fix on nothing But fixing now...