In the 1990s there seems to be a shift towards simpler diction, brevity and the use of rhythm and observation to convey changing perceptions, actions and thoughts.
Walking the dog
three adders along the track
clouds of butterflies above
pale-seeded grass
whilst first arrivals come to
the scout-field picnic, we,
the dog and I, trail the shadows
of larches and oaks
we trudge through deep
red clay where horses have
stamped into sagged and puckered
hollows
a buzzard, unused to company
in this dark and solitary
hour, takes his slow-flapping
leave
a wood-pigeon, cornered by
surprise and lost imagination,
ignites into fistfuls of wings,
cleaving the silence with
ill-tempered grace
what can the dog do but
bark and run at empty air?
[5 July 1992]
Question
what is it that we meet
turning in the quietness
of a shadow?
what is it that moves
the air on the edge
of the dark pond?
and here in the city,
where police inspect
the night by helicopter
and an ambulance hunts
for fugitive pain, what
is it that we meet in
the crowded street
between the takeaway
and the bank?
[10 July 1992]
That look
the woman has that look
of bone-like shock, as if
her body was no longer
inhabited but left to
carry on its daily tasks
unaided, and she carrying
the feathery bundle of
a child
running from sniper-fire
is no way to raise a family
[25 July 1992]
A night in the caravan
roof scuffed and brushed by
narrow-leaved arms of the wind
cones and scales of
bark fall to the
ground
this morning’s hymn is to
moving air, to ceaseless
mobility of branch and
cypress frond
what fury the wind ignored
by rigid timbers raised against
cloud-whipped sky
[22 August 1992]
Poetic licence
according to Giraldus Cambrensis,
the Welsh priest and historian,
writing in 1188:
an eagle is said to know
the place where it can find
its prey, but not the time
a raven knows the time,
but not the place
[August 1992]
New Forest
all these charred and twisted
shards of heather, like so many
bones scattered across a misty
plain
in the shallow wet light of this
August evening even the pines
seem to float and shiver as
the choirs of silver birches
gather to sing
[25 August 1992]