Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

I remember
you coming around to my house
on your motorbike,
with a kitten.

You were an image
of yourself:
nineteen, a canvas sketched in,
waiting for bold strokes
from a palette as vibrant as fireworks.

And of course
you were shortlived like a rocket,
lighting up our upturned faces as you expired,
leaving us as empty
as a milkbottle, earthbound.

AND SO

A latch
shuts the night

out

a turn of key
puts the town to rest whilst

outside a cat
and a milkbottle

gaze at the moon
yellow and overblown

and now Mr. Cat
with swish of tail

vanishes into the shadows
as the milk bottle

falls and rolls away
its note left on the pavement.

Inside a clock has run out
of tick tocks

until it is wound up
by a sleepy eyed man

so that it speaks of
time again.

The house dozes.
The lawn yawns.

Everything is
just so

and so

....goodnight.