I have read the papers till the wave of the word
has drenched the acre where the sense is sown
and so receding, leaves a mind that’s blurred,
a dim expanse, a field of mud and stone,
a few gross plants, splayed-out and overblown,
and no good earth, with nothing to effect
a nearness of the known and the unknown.
The plain of my understanding has been wrecked.
I have talked to the world, the world has talked to me,
I have heard this view and that view the world over,
I have listened to nothing. Only the wind from the sea
hints to me of a new world to discover
each magical breath. We have become too clever,
too knowing, too far apart, too worded through.
I will unword the thread of myself for ever –
the silentest, the simplest thing to do:
I will go down to the sea for my conversation.
I have read too many books, it has stilled my mind,
I have sunk in front of the screen. What inspiration
is a dead word, a dry wave, or a dull blind
outlook on things? I would be less defined,
a part of all that moves and does not end,
in with the wordless current … and still find
a poem or two to write, talk to a friend.
And who else
made poetry, to end up at the sea?
They are my cousins.
half understand a language of old Time.
A brilliant shade
delivers us to new light. And with those
yet to be made
we give our words to – what? – to all
aeternitatis. Ah my cousins of Earth
we are called away.
it says. Yes,
your worship. Look
it says. I am looking,
What do you hear?
I hear a soft breath in a garden,
and see – Go on.
I see reflections in a pool
of what will be. Good. It is enough.
Come back. Thankyou, solemnity.
On my way.
Do you hear? Do you see?
Dimly, your intelligence.
of blocks of great air.
And I see – . Take your time,
all the time in the world.
I am afraid
to say what I see.
Can you softly sing it?
Yes, your salience.
There are gods about us. There are gods about us.
Not a place. No places. A palace.
Quite so. You are agreed?
On what, luminosity?
It is time now
for my going.
First you will encounter
the rocks in the dark.
It is all.
I look back, immensitude,
at the time I had
in a coracle only
on loan to me.
Yes, your grace.
Throw the newspaper words into the wind.
In the first poem of my old age, I see
a shore somewhere, that some sense may be dinned
into my blind old skull. A place to be.