' She sips a pale white cup of tea'

 The mother in her usual lace stares through the window
 as voices turn and fade in the dark passages between the mountains.
 Slates gleam in offset sun, marbled birds cushion the thunder.

 The lace punishes the arms of the mother, its tight whorls grip her veins,
 her neck like the neck of a waterbird gleams like marble.
 Voices gleam in her head. Cushioned she fades into slate.

 Passages turn from the window.
 Thunder springs softly across the mountains.
No one, least of all you, will ever know.


Me and Ashbery Riding Shotgun on the M6,

 my Selected firm against the wrist,
 I wind down the window, fire
 at the enemy juggernaut:

 ' Long ago was the then beginning to seem like now
 As now is but the setting out on a new but still
...