The human field of view allows
the castle to stand despite its thinness
on the hill formed of plucked trees
and the sea moving in all its weight
in its strength and then weakness.
Strength, weakness. Strength, weakness.
The seagulls search for fried fish
while I forgive myself of the past,
this new year. And find new feelings.
This civil war gatehouse with brick
and stone arches, towers, mossy tile,
helps me to understand myself:
it sits there, watching the grump
and joy of life and doesn’t quite know.
But it sits there all the same.
A rainbow slips into the bay around,
and grows brighter. We find a place
to park and at last, enjoy the sea.
The tv counts down to a slight delay –
the sun’s condensing hammer
and the earth’s revolving bourse
sinking us like concrete pillars
into the wet earth, grey and flaking.
For one multiplying second of time,
some billions of times, this second
takes its place amongst the others,
crumbling under our thoughts.
Each swollen moment by these alchohol lives
is chorused with hoarse voices;
Burn’s words cut them with a layer of flake-gold,
gathering in tear-ducts, perhaps
to fall, or not to fall, and rest there aching;
Perhaps the year rang out loss
echoing through the companionable air
Dulling and blunting,
’til the whole resembled the part.
Perhaps you were uncomfortable.
Now metal-faced staring at the past to forget
though it may be argued
the latter year bore little pain
beyond the tearings of news-paper,
to our routine streets at least.
Tonight some of us take upon ourselves
the wrongs and sorrows of the earth
as if they were our flesh and blood –
and they are.
So too are the vast outnumbering joys
from time to time to time
each year which guide us
and a creeping enjoyment –
I permit you to dwell on them.
And we can muddle
’til the morning, and the year fall
in their clothes
onto the bed and black out