The year is still raw
In spite of the shoots
And the thin sunshine.
The cows lie behind
Brown bramble hedges,
Safe from the sharp wind.
On his daily walk
My son turns apple
Red and chubby hands
Turn purple, scorning gloves.
Forefinger and thumb
Point to sky and birds
And dogged walkers.
Everything receives
Mention in his list
Many times over,
In case his mother.
Both ears well muffed,
Should fail to listen.
7th March 1971
“What is man that thou art mindful of him?” Psalm 8
I am a ragbag of organs
With guaranteed obsolescence,
A parcel of aspirations,
Of failings and infirmities.
And yet! and yet
Pure cosmic gold flows in my veins,
Gold laurel leaves surround my head
And, in the arcades of my mind,
A spirit moves, begot by stars.
I am a pit of misgivings,
Beleaguered by ancient taboos,
In the land of instant image,
A mirror without reflection.
And yet! and yet
Beyond the final range of hills,
I am my own El Dorado,
In the swamps of absurdity,
My own walled garden of delights.
19 March 1990
We are, forever,
Sighting, approaching
Or retreating from
Unexplored shorelines.
Footprints on sandbanks
Seeking higher land,
Fresh tracks on shingle
Downwards through gullies
Out to waiting seas.
Unfinished journeys,
Always casting off,
Never arriving…
New conquistadors
Watching for omens,
Birds, constellations,
Driftwood on currents,
Voices in the wind.
Each successive shore
Spread more seductive
Than the one before,
But no abiding
Haven for the heart,
Still less for the mind.
At the tide’s turning,
Anchors are lifted,
Islands receding
To hazy horizons,
Leaving images
No more permanent
Than spray in the wake
Of dawn caravels.
9 January 1991
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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