(for here is poetry’s coast)
Down the hills the moon sinks into purple grapefields
wined in the brown roomy earth of southern France
hock country rich under a relentless sun
but not for many – for here the peasant scrapes,
and the brown hen, Maggie, scratches in the dry, gravelly path,
a religious creature eking a living out of hard rock.
Blue blue are the waters of the running sea
in the slushy sandy beds of the Mediterranean.
Green green riotous green lovely on the splashy film of the eye
rising from those blue waters : in the rich morning
you can pause and wonder what monstrous tide
draws you back to the inhospitable round of daily work in UK crass cities
for here is poetry’s coast where the bronzed fantasies
play out their nude pageantries on Neptune’s blindest shores
where thieves and perverts move.
Dark, dark, and still…..in the hills
the poverty scrapes like our brown hen, but the Mercedes
carries its exhibitionists back to inland camps
where labourers plot to run their considerate kings
to palm-fringed parks on ocean shores.
Considerate reader, do not hymn this poem overmuch.
(from “The Light Of Day (I)”)