A pool of oil is doubtless still there
At the end of a long street where I walked as a child:
A rectangle of heavy death under a black sky.
Since that time, poetry
Has kept its waters separate from other waters,
No beauty no colour detains it,
It is in anguish for iron and the night.
A lifeless shore's long grief, an iron bridge
Thrown towards the other even darker shore
Is its sole memory and sole true love.
This is the first of two volumes, out now from Oystercatcher Press.