What country is this?
What landscape and inscape
what winter fire breaking the ice of December?
and there are further enticements
to be reckoned with
perhaps also the memory of a fresco
which seemed more living and alive
than its static pose suggested
you are here, you are there
and for one instant on a ledge
there is no difference between
one moment and another
as if the burning balance tipped to one side
and again called on you to follow.
On Champion Hill
A curl of wood-smoke, a woman with a pram,
Inscribed upon a sky the colour of slate:
Signifiers of a language more mysterious than
The cunning of words could ever translate.