There are eyes in trees, the street's
a stage set, a set-up. They're in the wings
there are things said. Whispered.
Everyone's in on it.

We're down the Viaduct lunch time —
pint of shandy, cheese and onion.
The long walk back up the hill. We're on
police records. We're known. Our bones
show up on x-rays.

He throws a stick for the dog in Habberley Valley.
The tattoos fly from his arms, land in the bracken like leaves.