A mind of soft things

Give me again

a gentle brown eye

and a mind of soft things



a grave purity


Joy sloshed around in his boots

(he left it twinkling on the garden path like a slug- trail in April)

It glistened in his whistle

on his books

his pen



Joy was also in the cotton sun

spilt by Morning

when she tip- toed in

to peer

over his shoulder and watch his fingers.


Joy did not often send him giddy

but sometimes it would leap inside him

like a trout and he would do the tea-towel jig

and dance with me on his feet


Give me again


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