It's as though windmills
had spun a bris marine
to billow autumn like a galleon
over the waves of the park,
...
“The balcony never lets me down.
London floods in light below and stars
flock onto my hands.
Born on the banks of the old docks,
...
Even the solitary drinker in me
doesn't want to know.
I've spilt myself too many times,
knocking over the holy wine.
...
I ask do not enquire further
than the waves breaking.
I've stopped the boat to wait
under lamplights before.
...
I don‘t want to mention the sea
in this poem, it might come
between us. I'd swim it anyway
to reach your breasts again.
...
Scribbles from some place or other...)
Amsterdam
It's as though windmills
had spun a bris marine
to billow autumn like a galleon
over the waves of the park,
the city's still life brushed
by the hand of a Dutch Master,
probably Rembrandt.
The burnished copper
of coins glows in the windows
of shops, dark houses
and a ship that is creaking
like a forest in the mist.
The craquelure of a painting
spreads across pavements,
buildings and sky, the heart
cracking like a dry leaf.