Goyt

Up on our own blueberry hill, in the throes

Of Buxton water

You held my hand, laid me down

I told you, of my daughter

There so clear we thought her to have done so well

To have fairly reached; no fear

That time so near, I hear your laughter

The song to be blessed, by one so dear

The early summer streams, cold water falls over

The white, uncovered toes

Beneath a stone-arch bridge, in turned up trousers

Where hardly anyone now goes

With the sunlight flickering through the silver reeds

And the moorland’s distinctive past

Where on that afternoon, before the evening moon

Our love, our love took fast

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Not fooled by design

Clothed by Calvin Klein or Lacoste

Or Ralph Lauren or Henri Lloyd

You are out of place in this town where

To dress cheaply is itself part of the attraction

Where sharply to turn a hand too quickly

In a game of cards, is altogether unexpected

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Your land is not my land, but welcome

We walk in familiar places

Our conversation races and chases

Then fades into our undiscovered dreams

My shoe laces, faced on the strike of the

Faraway clock are undone; the shine

Of flameless traces in the half light

Of midnight are over the cross unsung

We talk in particular cases of the real and

The imaginary, dazed by the liquor of love

My news of a Windrush calling, falling in line

The shadows steps, still and moving are abroad

In my country, here upon my Lincolnshire Wolds

The few truths that only they are able

To carry are held together; string on paper

Hope in the music of Liszt or Offenbach

We turn the last corner, under the

Soft sway of the evergreen willow

We walk along the unlit shingle path

Through the hinged wooden gate

And together we turn the cast metal

Key around, in our mortice security lock

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All around the world

I'm told you've played at Glastonbury

Was that before the entanglement

Of your Dorset pale faced folk fiddler

And your sub-continent Bhangra baby

The newly beautiful, truly deep eyed singer

The geography teacher

She tells me that she is tone deaf

And all night I see her fingers dance

On the curved back of her estranged lover

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Counterweight

The poet who seeks his own fame

Who seeks to be

Outside of the establishment

But nevertheless

He wants to be thanked by them

For his dutiful service

The poet

Here in place of everyone

Who feels at odds with the world

Even at odds

Within their own world

Or looking at their own world

The poet

Then as the socialist worker

A justified struggle

By the poor

And the under-privileged

Yet what is the result

The unencumbered

Alternative

To be even more disenfranchised

Or instead to carry the load

With dignity

To become a pillar of society

Or to become

Entirely disillusioned

Or euphoric in joy

Is there here

Half a story

Or even any story at all

In any case

Would we, or could we

Understand how to reveal it

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