and still the sea is blue

and still the sun rises

and still the sea is blue

and still God is good to me

and still i love you


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

a walk with two jumpers on


golden gilt promised me

they’d been sent by spring

whose blossom army swept from

the eastern face of the hill


i heard a blackbird’s bugle call and saw

the sun leading a charge

surging like mercury

and the sky heaving the last light

from it letting it slip all silver

into six o’clock’s cold arms


the wood quickly buried what the sky gave it

and the light returned to the earth

waiting in the sleeping snow drops

brave in dreams of summer’s might