(One of our best loved poets)
You stood arched, seeking balance,
by green supermarket bins,
veined hands caught, as if, in quicksand.
I thought of a tree, heavily bent,
needles scattered over rock,
roots at the mercy of uncommitted soil;
of an eyeless street lamp forcing its leg
into the concrete, and around it -
meanders of dried pee and scattered glass;
of August's second full moon in a blue halo:
its shades, I mused, like your features:
worn out, fading.
I wished a mighty draft would come and -
in a whirl - seam shut the sight.