Three Poems


BABLOCK HYTHE

Out of hours, the road is warm stone,
a basking place beside the stream.

Cock pheasant promenades a hen,
their long toes sip the morning sun.

Stiffly the heron strolls, rolling
avenues of warmth underfoot.

My car rounds the corner early,
and the brace steer for the verge. They

smoulder through the grass. The heron
shakes out his pac-a-mac of wings

and hangs like rain above the stream.


SEPTEMBER MORNING

Moored where World's End
tugs at hedge and acre,
...