You gave out leaves
I talk of lesser things
You turned to grieve
I heard the robin sing
We do this for a purpose
Now though
Always to remember
To surprise your audience
You turn up the heat
I listen; tick-tock, tick-tock
You, in your unsettled seat
Turn off the lights and twist the lock
We do this for a reason
Now and then and always
But we don’t remember do we
Do we still have to wait until the autumn
One last line
A chance to say goodbye
The romance; we stayed together
Only at the final furlong
Did we start to cry
It takes such a toll
Washing flagstones
Wringing sheets; it's
A death step, the kneeling
For the knees
It takes such a toll
Sitting in silence
Flitting in between
The nurses and the carers
Just in case you sneeze
One last line
It comes to us all
Or at any rate
To everyone I ever knew
Now it's my turn
Turn up the radio
Music maestro please
Open the windows
Bring on the clowns
And the comics please
Laughter, always let there be laughter
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
