Épisodes

  • Songs Without Music

    Songs Without Music
    Nov 6 2025
    So Watch So watch my flesh decayand see how beautifully it goes;like something asking to be loved;like you, too shy to ask meto your room;marks that will survive are marks on skin and mind:not you with me,not face to face;and only this,a last decaypitching to hide itselfwhen each has gone their way. Cause Under empty skiesair finds no flags;people march but the bannersare burnt; the worldis bleeding into hell,and into hellthe worldbetrayed. My fist is flat,the truth is traded;there is nothing left to kill foror to honour. the worldis bleeding into hell,and into hellthe worldbetrayed. Angel I bought a glass palace in Paradisewith a pool and fifty rooms;and off its slender flagstaffI can fly to the moon. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. I’m alive and free so look at meI dream at the top of the sky;my fingertips are strips of jade -there’s no way I can die. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. Welcome, roll up, welcome,watch kings and princes sigh;they beg to use my golden wings.they beg to learn to fly. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. City of Fear Last night I flew over the city of fear;dark coated people came down the streets;they had angel eyes and shrank from light;they looked at me and wished to fly -but they couldn’t grow wings. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. Moon high, my rocket feathers carry me freeI see the late night-clubs open up,the curtains of private room drift apart;the battle’s over, but in coloured light,the battle starts again. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. People wait with wet wide eyes but the gods have gone,the night goes on;coins rattle in their mouthsthe gates have closed. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. Heros Come kill the heroes,tear the faces from the walls;there’s no misleadingleads us closerto Hell. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. Pictures in magazinesblow up their public lives;the roles they playkill for usand lie. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. Wars won in cinemasare all we never were;and all we ever arejust turns to dust. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. River Night-time holds me down and emptyopen to the flood;nothing stops the river breaking in,stops the riverbreaking me. Not sleeping, not waking,I’m trapped in the dark –cold shadows surround meclosing around me;it’s the dream worldof a lost worldof a world that never was. Faces, and the colours tastedturn the years I have not lived;take the lost road back,take the roadunsaid. Not sleeping, not waking,I’m trapped in the dark –cold shadows surround meclosing around me;it’s the dream worldof a lost worldof a world that never was. Cold City In rooms and bars the city throughI see you face the same;every word and touch we makerecalls our needs again. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. Yet when love moves and speaksits eyes are flat and closed;and every time we want to giveit suddenly lets go. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. We scare of loving, loosing dreamswith this love that must not saywith this love that cannot everdeclare itself again. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. So hold me on your fi...
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    12 min
  • Pilgrim

    Pilgrim
    Nov 1 2025
    1 in tight lines a dozen houses line the winter wheat – already: frail bungalows with front lawns, at the village edge; homes, already, transitory as inns, and clamped to a new access road that slices though the down. diggers have quarried the chalk - upended it; torn out the clay beneath -heavy, dark,greasy as abattoir meatembedded with flints,clewingto a long-departed sea. in a web of cul-de-sacs,of silent gardensof chipboard walls history is being forgotten; the land is practicinghow to die. SNODLAND, MARCH 1977 2 clouds clogthe river’s fallen level - a dry dayat the furthest edgeof summer; at the month’salmost-final,almost-end-point, flat and still; indestructible. hay,cropped in silent meadowsrests in long gold lines; the battles to be foughtare far away;nothing is corruptible; now is all there is. THE RIVER BEULT, AUGUST 1977 3 wadein the corn wavesundisturbed; come home -there is no toll; the hip-grasswill conceal and recall; fearing no fall,the dusty greenwill restore the world, its marks, its scars - bring itto a field of sun - to this home,crushed outwithin it. NEAR CRANBROOK, AUGUST 1977 4 of coursethere are grander thingsthan this Victorian rebuildingof medieval stone; but not for me. for eight years i have beenits steadfast visitor, a pilgrim of sorts,returning to a placewhere nothingis urgent; where custom points, like transepts,to the enfoldingfields and woodsfirst written in Doomsday. THE CHURCH OF ALL SAINTS, BIRLING, MARCH 1978 5 amongst the few remaining leavesof last year’s autumn, daffodils shakein a slight breeze; they lord it over the wilderness - the stone angeldrowsy under moss; the mausoleums,rectangular, preoccupied; the crooked tombstones,dreaming of placesother than this; the sleeping columbariaspread betweenthe shot green shavingsof recent trees - defiant,redeeming. BIRLING CHURCHYARD, MARCH 1978 6 winter rainhas darkenedthe hayrick’s sides; nowa nine-hour sunexpands upon it, restores it,saves itwith lengthening days; returning all. SNODLAND, MAY 1978 7 onlyon the roadbetween the trees; onlyon Birling Hilldo i evadethe day; slip the sununder leaf; freewheelon the scarp, believing onlyin Cistern Wood and Coney Shaw,in Stonebridge and Ley; in the fields that flit by, worshipping onlythe swift dark woods, the down’s allegiantoak, and beech, and chestnut - saved by speedeach timei turn intothe ceaseless haze. ON BIRLING HILL, JUNE 1978 8 nowthe cool weaveswhite; the high dayends; the ridgesimplifies; the downlandtightens – a narrow gate,darkly green - trees opento an ageless sky; a time for nightjars, nightingales, sparrowhawks; and i amwashed away. TROTTISCLIFFE, JUNE 1978 9 this is a roadfor sunday walkers,wanderlusterswho go just so far,their communion curtailedby an absence of magic, fitted inbetween reading the papersand lunch, as is customary now. THE SNODLAND TO BIRLING ROAD, JUNE 1978 10 clouds shift; over the hillthe moon swells, the grass,dark this side,lights up - ignites a sudden thoroughfareshowing me the way,night by night,as i cycle sectionsof the old pilgrim road, all difficulties shattered, past fields of clover, cowslip;past Blackbusshe, Badgells Wood, past the Battle of Britain cross,
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    21 min
  • Border Lands

    Border Lands
    Oct 27 2025
    march 1981 having this, no fantastic hate can rob you; not devils, not warriors, not demons; nor even angels, spying from their steep slopes, nothing, truly nothing can rob you – nor even this town, that has a history of theft and mutilation:the churches empty, the homes neglected the parks choaked with weeds. you do not need to stay.you do not need to pay.april 1981i’ve not wordsenough to say - i saw you walkingon the road today,nor eyes prepared to follow:folly ,prey.may i 1981eclipsing streets,a steady shore,an ordered crashof waves;through sunlight, shafts,marbled cloudsa far, far out horizon,unreachable;unbreachable.may ii 1981i amin envy of love;i am in envyof these two figures strong as the sun.i am in envy.june 1981how far do seas stretch?here, my love;beach, sand, dunes,and rocks, rising, cliffs, rising:we sit, hiddenin stumpyheat-drenched grass;a high hollow,spread with towels, a picnic, cigarettes:and two tight bodiescurled like babesobserving visions.july 1981on this shore – on every shorethe sea rolls, spreads,swobsexpandsexplainsbut we –you and i –we are fastened like limpets.we cannot leave.september i 1981the wavesof last night’s stormlinger, loiterinsistendure: they stir still;they stir now,white, wild, whippingthe heavy sea is not becalmed;it slaps on jetties,smashes the sea walls,breaks up the boats;and we must shelter.september ii,1981i have cometo meet myself again –to catch up.find fault,find favour.it is the same homing, bleak sea,the same empty horizonblotted out by mist.my heart gives into it;beatslike a forbearing tide.october 1981behind me a television towerfeeds the air,feeds a hundred thousandunseen homes;feeds them all, gannetsrazorbills, gulls greedy as Ahabwith a rattle of stodgy voicesi cannot hear,mayday signalsfor the dying dayfor the yearning empty night.november i, 1981november.the pebbles are smooth,grey, oval, wet;they slide,roll,rattle;children gather driftwood;build bonfires.the inlet – south beach - lies under a muscle of white cloud;wheeling waveswhiten,spreada pale disappearing line;we breathe airno city has maintained;i sit on a washed uptree trunkgreatest of all.november ii 1981just above the line thrownby the strongest wave;just at that pointwhere the sand shelves,where it is wet, softer, darkerjust at that point – that is where the people group where the people watch, where they walkthrow stones;the pensioner too,in his fawn coat,we are just at that point – each day,same time, same placebeside the shifting sea.december 1981 hallo there.hey!hallo!i see my faceunder the street light;i see that when this passionhas gonethe shop’s glass window will remainreflecting it all back;everything bloody thingbut hazy, stickywith salt,it is my father confessormy witness to others who walk,like icatching their faces,in this unkind abrupt waylong before they are ready to own up; catching their features too soonin the vast unending night.february 1982 lean mountainsrise seaward,rock on rock;thin fields stretch,taut as canvassthe first lightgilds the couch grassacross Swyddffynnon,fills the hollowsfrom Pontrhydfendigaidto Ystrad Meurigruns goldover Cambria.march i 1982 unspeaking, we’ve watched the daywake and slide unfelt;old room in an empty house.our bodies lie still,unspent;under the huge grey skythere is no trade.march ii 1982 brieflyi remember lying in your lap,my stock against the nightelectrically charged,incriminated;my fingers familiareach contour knownas my own,the warmth and textureof your feckless flesh.april 1982her eyes coilaround a worldi cannot see;in her headare the smiles of friends,and elders,smiling sadly,as they will smilewhen she is dead.may i1982living by the seawe have missed the firstgraffiti of spring,the scrawl of buds on bushthe harsh soft hasty greenthe pebble beach is our park, cold and harduntranslated, unpreserved,seen in flashesmoment by momentwithout memory.childless,parentless.may ii 1982but for thisthere is no other world;this is the magic of your face,the fascination,the hidden sea - waves rearrange the light;currents coil beneathlike massive ropesencrusted with barnacleswrenching the waterdragging it this wayand thatdragging it into a warren of rolling whitecaps.this is the only place for love;this time my heart will take its ancient pathunseen.may iii 1982somewhere, somehow, something will end;just not be there; we’ll wonder why we ever looked;adjoin, ajar,elude, escape – the door will neverclose again.will never.may iv 1982remember that old image of summer;the blooming trees,heavy with green;the flower crowd and scent – someone sittingnear the house; someone playingthe music of old scores on the piano?it never was. get up and go; the door is open.may v 1982i cannot see it in your eyes, the lover, mistress, master - it is only the ocean i see –the eternal cross of lightdimming in the ...
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    24 min
  • At The Volcano

    At The Volcano
    Oct 26 2025
    ONE Wholly beautiful, this is a remote withdrawn unsaid place; knowing nothing, wisdom held unaided. The volcano, burst, blistered, blasted before time, rises above savannah, autonomous. Nothing of what I have left behind has followed me here: no bars, or clubs, or safari parks swarming with mutinous animals; there are no buildings here,no cables, no pylons, nothing. There is nothing,nothing; there are no roads even, nor walls, bridges, hospitals,barbers, butchers, pharmacies; museums are absent; and shops,and markets selling fruitand sentimental knick-knacks. TWO Even the ruinsaround this place have still to be built,lived in, fought for, destroyed by monsoon rains, by dead and dated wars,and rebelshiding from the recent defeatsof old conflictsthat never end; there are just trees; just podo treesrising like citadelsaround the titanic flanksof the volcano; trunksthirty feet round; their branchesforking low,twisting,archinginto artless beams,hewn lintels,giant joists; a stronghold,spontaneous, animate,built in a high lapsed land, soaringabove bordersthat have worn into wasted lines,pale snaking imprintswoven invisiblybetween every spur and stream, climbing the sides,between ridges and peaks,vents, conduits, lakes – the crater, cloistered, limitless: every inch of every borderremembered in old, disputed books in archives in Nairobi and Kampala; in the stories the tribespeopletell each otherevery breaking dayin villages far, far away. THREE Mostly though, there are no people here:no trippers; no travellers, tourists, not even residents; just me, and one bemused young driversmoking through a packof Marlboro lights. Especially, there are no houses,no homes or gardens; no streets or settlements. In this place -in this place here – no cars soundno buses blare their loud exhausted horns; there are no windowsto openfor music to escape from; conversation to drift from no drilling, grinding, crashing, crunching,no barking dogsor phones, no people talking, shouting, singing,nor even passing each other,to pass the daywith a nod, a “Hi,” a “Humm”. In this place herethere are no rooms filled with the ordinary thingsof lifeor of objects passed from one generation to the next. In this place hereit is the trees that talk,that chatter and discoursein sudden winds; it is the birds that speak, confer, negotiate,the buzzards, bustards, cuckoos, kites; and the waterfalls, slapping over a hundred meters of rock,the hot springs bubbling, and hyenas baying at a cornered buffalo. In this placeit is the sounds you cannot hearyou notice first and last:the stealthy leopard,the bushbucks, cobras, lizards. This is a placethat leaves no trace. FOUR I have climbed herequite alone,leaving the jeepwhere the level groundran out. At the end of a ragged treadof off-road tyresthe bush rolls, scrub to forest; long burnt grass - the colour of lions –reaches to the forest on the mountain’s sheer as tombstones sides; the slopes narrow to a lawless green, strip out light,break spaceinto an elaborate mazeonly animals can navigate,following the antique pathsmade by wild elephants. You hear them,travelling by night,scouring the salt caves,their tusks - like the claws of massive diggers -carving deep channelsinto the volcano’s heart. Jungledefends the cancelled land,morphs into thick shadows,repeating and repeatingall that it is; fugitive tracks -the tread of wary animals - blur and disappear,snaking off in the sombre light, the measured lunatic murmur of insectstwists in tail-winds. Colobus move. FIVE Python creepers curtain from forty-metre trees; camphor, redwood, juniper, rebuffthe shrinking sun. A hungry old insistent nightbegins to fall; and in the evening miststhe volcanoappears and disappears; floats,through the turning yearssince before the day was late; a templeover the world it made; a dreamland built in fire and ash in tephra, cinders, lava, a guarded shangri-lawhose gods have namesnow quite forgotten(if they were ever known at all). Here, the jehovahsare perfect, imperfect,perpetually lingering onheedless of permissionscraving not to know
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    12 min
  • The Jungle

    The Jungle
    Jul 4 2025
    The Jungle, the Work of an Unknown Author, edited by David Swarbrick & Max de Silva. Whether or not the original text of The Jungle included a dedication can, sadly, only be a matter of random speculation given the passage of so many hundreds of years, but for my own part I would like to dedicate my contribution in its publication, the Preface and Notes to MM. I secrets Nothing yet does the jungle give, however long you wait or watch; it is eternal, it does not age. Its appearance is scarcely a hintof all that is hidden - tight-lipped, dark green; ceaselessly undisturbed, untouched, unconcerned even; indifferent to what begins where,or how, or why - as if it could knowthat it will allsimply return. Actually,it is a great wall, limitless, its ends unreported,holding closethe smuggled secrets of this day and tomorrow, of one millennia to the next, filtering the sun like a censor, carrying forward its confidential cargos in low capacious vaults. Listen now; stop, and listen. It speaks in ciphersthat have no key,yet picks out imperfectionsbetraying themlike a spy to an enemy, dipping, dipping into nameless valleys and up the steep sides of unforgetting hills. II island The songs that have enduredare merely words,the tunes themselves long lost; the texts are somewhat incomplete, but what survivesis that perfect island, presented in the way a child might dream of an island set in a great sea, rising up from forested beaches to a centre of mighty mountains that disappear into clouds. Immense riverstumble back down. In the villagesthe old dances are still young; new babies are fed on milk dipped in gold before their horoscopes are taken. Numbers rule the universe. Boys touch the feet of elders; householdsprepare their daughtersto come of agewashed in water with herbs, the girl concealed until she is presented with her own reflection swimming in a silver bowlbeneath her face. The gems later looted from their antique tombswere not even from the island - diamonds, emeralds,even amber, to mixwith their own stones, pink sapphires and rubies, garnets, topaz, aquamarines;rose quartz fine enough to see through. Carpenters inlaid furniture with ivory and rare woods; crafted secret chambers, hidden drawers. Fish sang off long sandy beaches. And along the rivers stretched parks,warehouses, jetties, mansions. III bounty Later,they measured that happiness,when happiness was a choice, recalling a time of bounty, an embarrassment of great cities,of shipping lanes that converged on southern ports. The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon welcomed visitors. Kings ruled, father to son,brother to brother,daring to do all they thought, There were brindleberries and fenugreek; lemongrass, mangos; the coconuts fruited; frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,even kadupul flowers, queens of the night. High wooden watchtowers rose protectivelyover wide courtyards, and gardens grew cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla. Waters rippled in great tanks built by kings like inland seasto flow to fields and homes. Kitchens prepared milk riceand new disheswith ginger and kitel, turmeric, tamarind. In the shade of palace buildingsfrescos were painted, statues carved, the talk was of new trade routes,marriages, miracles. Tomorrow is tomorrow - Here I picked a flower, and this is for you. Mangosteen ripened in orchardstheir seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,strips of edible flesh. It was like eating sex. Within the stupaswere thrones and begging bowls, and relics won in foreign wars. From northern templesgreat chariots were hand pulled through the crowded streetsby thousands of worshippers. Fortifications, moats, rampartsguarded the borders; the realm was not made for defeat; and the fishermen flung their nets with ease. IV underfoot Somewhere, rotting in its red earth
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    55 min
  • Elegies For My Father

    Elegies For My Father
    Jul 3 2025
    1 PAPER BOAT slowly slowly like a paper boat turning in the wind on a glassy pond slowly slowly like a huge ship spinning in a boundless sea slowly slowly like a slurred boom on the edge of heaven slowly slowly you are going your way I cannot reach you. I modulate my voice speak twice as loud; I let you fall asleepand do not interveneI watch you slip,slipslip awayinto the infinite firmness of ageslowlyslowlyyou are goingand I cannot stop you;what will be leftwill be the echo of your voicesayingjust give me a hug sonslowlyslowlyyou are turningslowlyslowlyyou are going away ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. JULY 2022 2HIM do you see him?I do.I see him so well,now,as if cataracts have been removed,or darkness lifted,or Bartimaeus met in town, betrayingthe sight of men like trees, walking.for there he is,down this thoughtand down that,down every thought;lurking inescapably,stale as water that will not drain away,blooming like an unkillable weedon my perfect spotless green-as-life wildflower lawn.yes,there, there he is,the bastard uninvited guest,the foul changelingmorphing, little by littlebit by bloody bitinto the host.at first, he was shockingly rare;a parent here,a distant friend,a wise and gentle witch;a clutch of gorgeous aunts.now he comes like a commuter bus,like a monstrous industrial vacuum cleaner,like a tsunami mutilatingwith its froth of white-brown brine,gathering the broken limbs of far flung homesa vortex,churning, sweeping far inland to claima close friend here,another there,mother-in-law,a mad and lovely herbalist,another aunt.plucked from their stops;and others,always others, waiting in further stops,huddledunder the flimsyrooves of bus sheltersas if they could ever evade this acid rain.how do I tell him to fuck offto fuck off to the furthestbitter boundaries of the universe,to the ends of time,to the black mysterious etherbubbling in unimagined territories,the godless limitless landsno maps depict;how do I tell him to go,to go, and not return;to fuck right offwhen I hear himnow,when I hear himnow,inside of me? ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. MARCH 2023 3RAVEN those most I knowthose noises go;and mad mindsdraw the raven ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 4OUR TIME no longer do youworry about what next to doyou are submerged by sleeplike the waves of Lyme Baywe almost heara mile away,Hope Cove, Thatcher’s Rock,rolling, one upon anotheryou have lived so long,so bloody longputting one foot before the next.I sit beside you.a terrible rainbeating on the windows,feeding you chocolateswhen you wake;playing you music –the old tunes of the war,of Calcutta,of Bill and Ben,Glenn Miller,the ragged random pathsthrough almost 100 years of life ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 5PAPA you are so frail now.your body twitches with random movementsfingers, kneeswatching sometimesalive,stubbornly alivehanging on,in case somethingimportant has been forgotten,and needs to be donebefore you go. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 6GOOD it is not reciprocalthis good, you know -as if it might returnto coat you backlike a bee with pollen ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 7ALREADY already,yes alreadyI am already saying goodbye.you sleep much more nowhears littleeat less.you cling to your bedlike an iron sparrowclinging to its treealmost,you are not here.almost.tomorrowor if not tomorrow,then someday soonishyou will have gone,died,buggered off;left this planet,left me.and that will be it.no amount of negotiated languagecan put us both backbreathing the same airin the same room.and that, of course,will also bewhen my own oxygenstarts slowlyto run out too. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 8BUT FOR but for your shoulder’sbriefestbriefest twitchyou could be dead.beyond the half-closed curtainsand the open window,parakeets call from mango trees;crows caw;an unendable burr of grasshopperssummons from smooth green lawns:and here, toothe ordinary thrill of country noiseshum,and echo,and chatter,and splash.at night,foxes bark,owls whoop;andbaa-baa bleat the sheepin their long sad day’s lament.oh yes, daddy,yes:of course you are here and now –here and now,here and now,still as a corpse,deaf as a shell,weak as an infant;in pain, in fear,tired, tearful, fretful, finished, forgetful,utterly forgetful –but here, now.come,let us thinkbeyond -beyond this quiet room,this modest, unaffronting roomwhere, just beyond your windowany country could wait.come, let us thinkbeyond -beyond this kind and cautious building;beyond the kind lanes of Devonand the buildingsrooted in red earth;beyond the ceaseless misty drizzle,the hedgerows high as chimneys<...
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    19 min
  • The House We Share

    The House We Share
    Jul 3 2025
    1 Birch The birch boughs do not stir or sigh though the world is spinning. Oxford, March 1998 2 Here Comes The Spring I’d Stop Here comes the spring I’d stop, the buds I’d freeze before they fleck the hedgerows to a haze of green; here comesthe shining grass,the bulbs,the early blossom,the tips of growthswelling unstoppablyon the ends of brancheseverywhere; this is the springI’d halt, returning time to a timebefore we knewyou were to die,so we could play those daysover again,painless and manageable,discreet carriers of a worldwe could understand,and of a god still one of love. England, March 1998 I’m Not The Exile You Know I am not the exileyou know,thrown upby a distant coup, thrown offby a war,thrown outby a sudden dictator, yet my countryhas vanished too, its room reclaimedfrom far away, its colours no clearerthan I can keep them, its daily patterns tracedbehind each day. Oxford, May 1998 With Micky Tonightthe air is dark and smooth;we sitrecovering,the room muffled,cooledby an air-conditioner; and how I need you,your still arms,your sound,your smell,and tonight,especially, your love, your fingersbrushing my foreheadlightly,brushing it, bringing backa lost fortressamidst the pain. Aswan, April 1998 Daylight Nowthe summerdoes not wait, will not wait, cannot; nothing stopsthe lightflooding ahead, flushing outthe end of day London, May 1998 How Do I Make You Laugh How do I make you laughwhen the bad newswill ever come, when you tell methat she fell on the half-step, or could not sleep, or slept too much; how do I make you laughwhen you tell meshe could not eat, that it is harder to find the airto make the wordsshe wants to say; that the machines have side effects,that now the drugs do nothing, that she is dying, fully awake,in greatest need, yet always – always – as she is: how do I make you laugh then,when our world is broken? Oxford, May 1998 Being There Sometimes this early summerhas tricked me out of grief,fetching me into a worldwhere the disease has retreated,taking with it each terrible promisein its long, random decline; you move in your wheelchair still,but the fear of losing youhas been pushed backat least a dozen years: you can still enjoy the garden, travel,watch your grandchildren grow a little older,enjoy the ordinary rituals of love - and be there –always – for me. Oxford, May 1998 Tiger Hourly your dyinglies between us, a crouching tigerpoised- even as we hold you – when you struggle to rise; when you fight to rest; Oxford, June 1998 Where I Am You are not dying here. From where I amI see you walkingon the terraceabove the Adyah, kicking water in anL-shaped pool, playing tennison the courtby the banyan tree. you are not dying here; London, July 1998 Station I expect you now,this evening,at this – and every - station, walking out to greet me, your simple movementclaiming each platform, each airport, home; each city, town and village; claiming each space -for us, forever; I expect you now;I expect you here. Plymouth, July 1998 What If What ifwhat youwantedyou had? What ifwhat should bewas; what if? What then? Oxford, August 1998 Remembering It’s not my painthat hurts, but time, moving again just next door; the voices of childrenrise and fall, call,as you struggle for breath. It is time that hurts. Time. Oxford, August 1998 Phone Call Although your fingersmove a little lessyour strong voicefills the phone,charges the line, charges me. You are not old enoughto be dying; stay: you cannot go. Oxford, August 1998 This Lovely Month This lovely monthis full of death; how do I hold the day,to halt the night I dread? Oxfo...
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    44 min
  • The Cartographer's Art

    The Cartographer's Art
    Jul 3 2025
    Ley lines What remains are the maps, laying, like ley lines, the journeys of men who have died, or simply disappeared; the journals others have remembered, building the picture from a few surviving fragments quoted in the books of those who followed. Charts swallow charts,pass on the same fantastic contours -corkscrewing coastlines,pulling out modest deltasinto uncharted seas,and, faithfully,taking eacha little furtheras if a returning sailorwhispered on the home dockthat the journey was furtherthan the old maps had implied. Sometimes,a new hand intervenes,adding an island,peppering, with cities, the board alluvial plainsof a dreaming land;gouging out a fierce, flamboyant river; but even the navigatorsdo not knowwhich of the strange sea beastspreying on the edges of each terrainare the ones to fear; or which rivers will take us inland,before vanishinglike streams on chalkbeneath the walls of the real city,the one that is mentionedin the first accounts? City Without Seasons Because the city has no seasons;because the house beneath the downs was soldit is that summer that holds,its days turning at the end of unfamiliar roads,dry and culpable:forever out of reach. I remember the order of things -sloes, leading a rush of starry blossoms:apple, pear, cherry, plum;fountains of white hawthorn flowing before the chestnut;the chestnut opening before the beech; I knew what would flower when,hawkweed along hedges;poppies banking on high verges;rowans reddening overhead:just now; and now,the yearshave rolled to this point,to this impounded summerrooted in another landscape, ghosted by the co-ordinatesof an older map: the hill is swept by trees;the gate is closed.someone else is in the yellow house. Wherever you lie,come out;the city walls are not so wide:you walk my streets,shop in my shops wherever you are,come out. Daylight shrinks;leaves gather;along the old drivecrocuses bloomwith tiny purple wingslike birds escaping south. The city calls down long dark evenings,faces flash-frozenin the street. Wherever you are,come out It is time,It is time. Forgotten Bounty It stays -that memory of flying once – vassal states break free,daring all. The new frontiersare all the News reports.Journalists speak of citieslost decades ago;forgotten routes reopen,fresh boundaries framethe unsurvayed new nationsrising from the blank expanseof disregarded maps. Although the same autumn bonfiresmoulders at the edge of the Hyde Parkit is all changed: the unending summerhas taken us from early lighted roomsdrawn us outinto a world we thought we knew,and have to learn again. I saw youbecause it was too early to go homebecause the party before was dullbecause I chose that place, randomly, and it is always the ease I remember;the easeand your voice moving us on. All around the city dims,shrinking space before usto a single routeremembering the older roadsthat lie beneath the asphalt. All Night Now all night longbeside you burnand fold the frozen stars away;the silver night,secured and safe,floods out across my dreams; within my armsagain you turn -the sweet grassand the silent sky -and all forgotten bounty breakswithin the space we lie. Now It Is Cold Why go, now it is cold?Already the street lights burnand the park gates are fastened;stay. The air is still;the distant traffic rounds invisiblyin cold blue lanes below; here,our fingers movefrom arm to face,from lip to ear,reading like blind men,reading. Behind these blindsthe distant worldis flat and closed; stay. Learning By Letter Learning by letterI link the points of your life,the picture growing weekly,cards, tapes, scraps of paperdispatched, received weekly,postmarking the route we take,laying down a sensethat we had metbefore we learntthe adult arts of camouflage. I lean against youcaught by the reboundingdifferences of image,a long lost freedomreturningon forgotten tidesflooding the recent landreassigning old boundaries,throwing out links like landing ropesuntil the dreaming jetties fill. The River Alone in the houseI see the river as a late traveller might,a winding path cutting through low hills. Colours change with an unreal haste;you do not see them movebut where before it was blue,now it is crimson;where it was whitenow it is gold. Shadows surface from shapes,trees fall out of focus. It is colder. Night binds the leafy lawns;birds seek out a placeon bare boughs. Behind the sirens of occasional bargesit is quiet; smoke rises in thin blue columns. The sun has sunk behind the hillsleaving a smudge of pinksilhouetting the old forestwhere kings have hunted,waged wars, built places, gone,leaving this a...
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    11 min