I come again to fields I know
And laugh and cry that every tree
And gate seems so familiar.
The turnings in the country lanes
Hold no surprise, no hidden threat,
And tides, twice daily, flow and ebb,
And sunshine follows after rain
With rhythms, smells and sequences
From ages set. All this I love!
Started on the boat to Jersey,
finished in hospital in Brussels.
How can I describe, my beloved one,
The mountain’s glory in the morning sun
How can I tell you of the silent glade
In the snowy depths of the forest shade?
And how shall I capture for you the spell
Of the crystal showers in the frozen dell?
“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
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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