Walking In Durham
One foot over another and the ground is grey
With the rain, swollen still, adrift in leaf mould,
Centuries have past and some kernelled skull
Must have harboured something like this weight
Heavy as a waiting exposure, the cold is so peaceful.
I don’t want the bluebells to just appear as if
From a magazine on the simplicities of country life,
My air is not choked with apple pies and wheat
And lying in fields dreaming was someone else’s dream.
Stone rises out of stone and Lowry people pass and
I can’t seem to muster up more than surface interest.
I want it to rain and soak me down to my skin and
In some way not to hate it but to be liberated,
Then maybe I should laugh at myself, stop listening.
Last night it wouldn’t have been so very terrible
To lie in the grass and feel utterly alone, to drown
In the green I cannot seem to touch, to be alone,
Just to be alone and sleep.