I remember the sun;

the sun was important,

although all the art was inside

and in perfect pride of place,

skirting the walls

and planted in rows.

My feet young, but the air old,

and moss overgrown on

the war memorial outside.

True, you need light for shade,

a chiaroscuro, and

a half-full glass raised.

The place is almost silent

with must, damp, old coins...

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Beside the water,

torch-lit in wide places,

the muddy track fades

and ash and oak are ragged

paper props,

before, beside, behind.

The thaw bleeds out

over marsh and moor,

swept away back east

with lines of fields

pockmarked

and played out.

My own earth is in the box

where

the heart smokes

and is painted on the floor,

where dogs rush to me a...

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Getting famous

with wilderness;

judgement's feather-light

body-blows, cascade

through vertigo.

Too old to start

afresh, AGAIN;

swimming in the scorched

starlight, of youth, eyes

unblemished, bright.

This is all fair,

where would it be

otherwise? How could

the cymbals clang warped

for us, weak heroes?

Or soften, as fruit

rich, nourishin...

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