He began –

generations of what should have been

in the palm of his hand; the creases of stone masonry and Christchurch,

better for the beaten, beaten for the man –

and crossed the river in her, the obscure

distances of chastity and love, the lulls of

a hidden blood –

an understanding, to the sore thought of what is lost

when all hope is gone, shackle snapped –

broken into the air, always the bone glass - cut.

 

When the never ended wood

burnt taught desires reprised – Latin lunged -

he sought the word,

gave good  and roughed the dream,

bedded in the loins of England,

and told what only a heart could -

thrown in to the seas, a crater of waves

set forward for years to come -

 

the lips of slight movement,

the brush of something happening,

the groove,

and the looseness of what others make of us,

falling deaf.

Jude?

Don’t - for you couldn’t,

be always standing under the pulpit of the moon,

with both hands open

and next to her, muttering into the night,

wherever she may be.