You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Who said to the trout,
You shall die on Good Friday
To be food for a man
And his pretty lady?
The Cat And The Sea
It is a matter of a black cat
On a bare cliff top in March
Whose eyes anticipate
The gorse petals;
Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
I am a man now.
Pass your hand over my brow.
You can feel the place where the brains grow.
An Old Man
Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,