I love the ends of roads,
that peter out on proms,
circle round a teashop
closed half the year,
...
He slept for years out of doors
in a garden in London, his daytime
job, some sort of writer.
...
Timeless forest
under the midnight wall -
owls haunt dusk
...
Robin and I went down to watch the boats,
past the gabled houses, the straggling hops,
over an old allotment gate,
past the scout hut, over the nettles and leaves,
...
This rolling field
waves brown over the bright
hedges. Her colander
burned with the fruit,
...
Copper leaves darker than holy wells
spin down from soundproof trees
where daisies burn the contour of the slope.
Indoors, amid cool corridors
...
You know you're in Ullapool
when the little town is a sea town,
lorries roll form the docks,
a gaggle of girls buy ice-cream,
...
It was not in my expectation
that you would understand this poem
so here is the English:
it will not speak in yoru sentiments
...
These are my drawings and paintings of birds,
stored sheaves under the workbench, propped
behind casket or candlestick. I never stopped
adding to my notes, colours rather than words.
...
It is as great a miracle for bees to live through winter
as if we entertained a second life
after our end in this one. Could we enter
...