Late afternoon.
The houses are shaded in the lightest of pencil strokes.
...
Winter bares the tree to a solitary nest.
Rain drips through its mesh of twigs.
...
What a Wonderful World, Louis!
Your voice, rough as the bark of a tree,
...
One has learned to allow a tiny space in the head for contingency.
Yet, losses befall suddenly
...
When exile took us by surprise,
a surgeon ready-scrubbed
...
I shut the door - rain flings into my face -
And make for the nearest bar.
...
These scavengers for wood beside the Thames,
I take in their glutinous, brown, tar-like stink.
...
The god I have always denied enters the house.
My father, lying in white, is in his death agonies.
...
In the summer, Lord, we idle, plotting our futures.
At your bidding, the seasons of spring and autumn
...