It's a kind of blindness,
never been there,
never seen there.
Not through my own eyes,
just in films and stills.

Even here I bring the blinds down
on native town and countryside.
Don't see what changes and what doesn't,
trying too much to cope with the present,
future and imagined virtual fights.

So what do others see? I can't use their eyes.
Can they be my spies? Can they infiltrate?
Can they secure my interests? Or are they
double agents for some other clandestine cause?

We'll be well cabbaged
before we're spring greened,
snowed on, blowed on,
Christmas glowed on.

Out of our walnut shells we'll come,
cycling for pleasure, recycling
for good measure, joining
the cycling chains of life.

It's the one behind taking the picture,
concealed, hiding in the crowd,
but not of it, divided from it
by the spirit of the camera.

What will she say, latter-day?
'I was part of it and this proves it.'
But it doesn't. She's moved only
by its framing, its history.

The poet's toolbox is
an onerous store for skills
with life and death
and words that ****.
Pandora's box with broken locks.

Hammering words,
chiselling words,
leaving the reader
nailed, *******, glued.

Pulsing phantoms through the brain,
playing tricks, memory ******.
But the writing keeps me sane.

Tall trees bend to watch the circus.
Red-brown leaves dance and clown,
leaping high somersaults,
bowing off with forward rolls.

Empty crisp bags join the show.
Gallop ******* down the street.
Heads sink deeper into collars.
Flapping hats prepare to go.

Plastic bags trapeze from trees.
Overhead wires sing harmonies.
Creaking boughs play timpani.
Isobars squint spitefully.

This is my own Ming vase.
I love it, treasure it.
I really don't know why.

It's odd and old, never to be sold,
cold to my touch, and stands aloof,
my only precious piece.

I'll never see another,
and dare not even try
for fear that I'll lose my loving eye.

We're weary and wet,
trowelling through the muck,
looking for ancient bones,
cold as skeletons.

The earth gives up its ***** old men,
bequeathing their remains -
bog people, trog people,
pongy gaping gob people -
most likely Angles and Saxons.

At least they have their own ***** old women,
and don't try to rattle our women's bones.