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