Soft leather, plumped up cotton
Vast chairs of day or night
With cushions
Support for…
Anyhow this is someway to heaven
At rest
Looking at the breeze
Feeling someway secure
On the brink of reason
Available
For the entrance
To the gypsy fair
With all manner of persuasions
In shadows they flicker on by
Oh me, oh my, how to be
Enslaved to this the naked eye
Behind the eyelids
Somewhere deeper than the smile
The golden mile of pleasure
The treasure trove we buy into
Is the sugar high or low
Does the doubt walk in
If or why or now I know
Where to next begin
Always to reach
For the drift of sleep
To meet
Beneath the crinkled craving
I'm waving not drowning
Underneath my skin
Awake I shake to take
The guidance once within
Is the autumn just for show
A funny kind of weather
If or why or now I know
The end to turn my tether
Two brothers
Almost beyond middle aged
Hardly well dressed
Although one is for sure
Sharper than the other
An older woman
With a clay compact complexion
And a good hat
With a broad velvet rim
The smiling man
With the bidding catalogue
Among a group of friends
Or well wishers
And the lad
In the ring, with a stick
To turn the cows, in calf
Steadily around
We, we are observers
And you, though a regular
You only came for the day
Later
Back your forty miles to Boston
To the thousand of acres
Of the potato king
Before the marriages fell apart
How hideous
To have worn that soft cotton
Silk striped multi-coloured shirt
How obvious
That even though you talk
Of yourself as the country boy
You could not be less at home
Anywhere than as here today
In the cattle market
Where the Lincolnshire Reds
Are prized
For their valued price of breeding
I saw a cow
Six or seven months in calf
Sold for seventeen-hundred guineas
I borrowed a book
Writing Poetry
By Doris Corti
With an introduction
Which I mistook
For being about me
Galvanised railings
Concrete slabs
For our seats
The auctioneers rattle
Repeats and repeats
I fear I face untold deceit
Sadness
On reflection
Surefooted the sun shone
On through
Valuers & Surveyor
Where I saw a cow
Six or seven months in calf
Old books
Bones
Tears of dried up dust
Parchment
Pretty pinks
Artists on the candelabra caper
Eyes closed
Eyes less than halfway
Wide open
Turned stones
Clay specks
Decked on dormant rust
Just because you can
Indeed so much
That you must
Just because I am
In the time
I learned to trust
Old books
Where now the repetition
Translated from dawn till dusk
By the shores of the longest river
With the still smooth pebble
Skipping on the water
Parchment
Where now Egyptian paper
Stated in fair governance
By the night of the oldest moon
With the still smooth dream
In the palm of your hand
