I go back, imaginatively, shrug my back, remember the mistral lost in memories of Blackwood thrashing in Blackwood, queer crops swamp my desk, tarnish the pages, the log of my travels a caravan hired like a courtesan beside the parkhouse, bucklews milled in flocks, felt the rhythm meaningless corpuscles, ravaged charmless. A wish‐list: a joke, sixpence worth of tramping sands lessons seared and deep‐scarred like a seaside pier; holy, like the riotous wallop of waves crashing