I subside to compose
And a wood pigeon's tender throb
Lulls me back to Kenilworth
Where all life, or nearly
Was my equal and my friend.
I'd pull the red clay from under the soil
And make a bowl to dry in the sun
And the glistening turd from out of my dog
Was no less lovely.

Perhaps it was a Sunday
So no men moving among the new bricks
In the clay pit far below me
Lying on the cliff edge
And the moving belt and the big lorries
And the perfectly round settling pond
Which I knew was full of poison
And walking back up the dead straight
‘Hedged in' path a giant wasp
Buzzed me
Flying just above my head
Mean as a Messerschmitt
Lining up to strafe.

And almost home I found myself
Inexplicably outside myself
Hovering alongside with no way in.
Perhaps it was a Sunday
And my mother's roasting joint
That did the trick.


by Peter Pacey

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