There’s a nestle down deep in the Kentlands,
‘long a bramble dressed crawl of a lane,
...
It was read by a child who’d been playing all day,
and the sketch of her prints had got carried away
...
I pulled alongside to your life,
with scarce an interview
...
Two bob, and sixpence, half a crown,
in the beginning, gunning down,
...
So here I am, I guess, a line without a plot,
assize without a size, a stroke within a jot.
...
Where the sand steeps up to the moss, boys,
there are feet pointing out, that are mine,
...
The glimmering carcass of losing touch,
lay prostrate on the floor,
...