Great Works: home 
texts next poem about re:lode
& so we end up here
where brickwork stops
pack jump leads
goat skin snare
chicken drumsticks
. . . love the way
the bone slips free
when cooked. . .
the Witch once sexted
from 'neath her Sunday roast
I thought Pollock dripping
was a North Sea toasty
'til that picnic
at the Maunsell Forts
they seem so tiny now
pegged to the eventlessness
of this horizon
where ghost-writers go
to flail in frail darkness
yet we're still here
we cling & stare
the harsh unclutterings
of a hurried heart
always made us
twitch & flutter
have you had your Pukka Pie?
if not try birthday tea
of zite tossed
in pork cheek sauce
then glide as slow day spills
a tired side of beef
impacted dreams
of rootless voicings
perhaps a bit of trumpet
ripples through your glass or two
since you ask
the drive still does me in
yet first sun on green corn
craves pinks dipped in light
& ghost notes frame silence
word tunes hum
seismic vaguely bound
the paper never leaves the pen
a beach re-ribbed at every tide
curl up inside
the inside of your whale
& tap them out
in love's long code
marimbian notes condense
as drops of unblown glass
& vibe beyond
a membrane
of cloud
Varzi, 10th May 2016