Next, Please
Always too eager for the future, we Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; every day Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear Sparkling armada of promises
Träumerei
In this dream that dogs me I am part Of a silent crowd walking under a wall, Leaving a football match, perhaps, or a pit, All moving the same way. After a while A
The Explosion
On the day of the explosion Shadows pointed towards the pithead. In the sun the slagheap slept. Down the lane came men in pitboots Coughing oath-edged talk and pipe-smoke, Shouldering off the freshened silence.
Modesties
Words as plain as hen-birds’ wings Do not lie, Do not over-broider things – Are too shy. Thoughts that shuffle round like pence Through each reign, Wear down to their simplest sense Yet remain.