The Bower

I chose the path that cost me several dollars
and all my years consist of several horrors.
The path is strewn with fallen leaves, fallen from
eaves.

So I made a bed and slept for several hours
and when I woke under shady bowers
I saw the word writ into a tree, written for me:

‘If time is a road
to a pleasing retreat…
or so we’re led to believe
by that musical brocade,
and we try to ignore
the ghost at the door
and when we think we’re good
it’s all just vainglory.’

I’m just a wasteful man in a caravan
and I wonder if I’ll ever learn.

The School Field

Did you ever notice me on the school field?
And I couldn’t place you and your august eyes.

If you ever noticed me on the school field.

What a place to be, this looks like death to me!
And how the swords made shapes, arches and armour.

I was a one for you, and the Temperance Brothers
dance.

Winter

I was never afraid of the cold moon,
the cold wind, the cold light.
I was never afraid of your customs,
your rituals, your manner.

But I couldn’t abide the winter, the winter.

I was back in the world of the cold moon,
the cold wind, the cold light,
and I thought it was you on the cold wind,
in the meadow, in the courtyard.

I was looking around for the right metaphor,
maybe a man-o-war, or a matador.
I was looking around for the right explanation,
or an invitation.

The Memory Trap

What became of the urge to remain here?
With the sky and the spires and The Rose and Crown,
and an afternoon light in an empty room
after a skinful, a skinful, a skinful.

The man in the park says we won the war,
so hats off to you, sir.

I remember the library vividly,
and the girls reading Blake don’t read Blake no more.
They’re all working in marketing somewhere,
I’ve still had a skinful, a skinful, a skinful.

The worst we could say is we were alone,
at least we didn’t die alone.

Black Wave Part Two

The night we worked together,
and your opera singing last orders
to a black wave.
And I walked into the valley,
though the train it rattled over me
to a black wave.

All I see…

There it fell, walking to lectures
in the morning, in the morning,
to a black wave.
All the days of autumn here at once,
and it all comes washing over me
in a black wave.

Stag and Hounds

I came home from the war
and stood beside the hospital bed.
I could see a school field
which seemed to mean something to me.

I came home from the war,
even trees seemed different to me.
I still remember rain
outside The Stag and Hounds.

Leaves

An investigation into the fallen leaves.
At the station with handfuls of fallen leaves.
They took me inside and told me what I’d done.
They took me outside, said, ‘We’re going for a drive.’

In the police car
they want to know the answers,
but they’re asking me questions
like where I hid the weapon,
and what became of Madison.
These are all questions in the sun.

There is no ladder at the back
or red and silver in the cracks.
Something is buried in the lake,
it’s where the body aches.

‘My pale companion,
what do the waters hold?’
It’s like asking the canyon
where it unfolds.

In the brior
they want to know the answers,
but they’re asking me questions
like where I hid the weapon,
and what became of Madison.
These are all questions in the sun.

There is no ladder at the back
or red and silver in the cracks
something is buried in the lake,
it’s where the body aches.

Aches…

Green Wound

These were the thoughts:
that we used to turn our heads
away from dreams, we all did.

But the moss upon the car.
I was entranced by its double meanings
and blue feelings. My thoughts remained unhinged.

And I saw the cornerstone
where the rose roads converge
in the sleep of the dead, underneath the star.

The waterfront pubs where we used to meet
in the wave of June
are now a real dream estate
of stone and tyres, so I keep that wound green.