The smiling teeth of the town bite sharp
upon my country village ways…
and the sky is packing-case sharp.
Once in a meadow I would laze
as wind doodled on water. I’d gaze
at clouds sky-dandled. That soft harp
is broken, now, of childhood days:
a new tune grinds me. My thoughts harp
on broken glass, iron gates, and pavement-slabs,
wood-splinters, roads rucked up…I like this tune.
It nails my life, the metal clang of day.
It puts me together. The ignorant sand-dune
is alive, a block of flats – as a crane grabs
my past, destroys it. OK London, OK.