Yesterday you talked of place
Of the writers three month trip
to the Antarctic; you spoke of the congress
Also of nothingness in everlasting light
On the grey windswept moor
A stones throw from the graves declared
By Brady to torment Longford or to make capital
Out of the somewhat badly affected Myra Hindley
Reed grass angled at a quarter past the hour
Guards over the roughed up rippled water
There are no houses, neither on the horizon
Nor to right or left, human habitats are unseen
Among an unfortunate landscape of tainted beauty
