At first I do not recognise the sound
As I cycle the empty lane through fields,
And my eyes are reaching out, all around,
To the greens and bright yellows of the Wolds
Perhaps, I think, it is the seashell breeze
Of woolly hat pulled low over my ears,
No. It’s a happy,...
You old seducer, with your chlorophyll,
Are your promise; their hidden prickle will
Remind me each joy comes with wounds somehow.
And taken by surprise I am undone,
As I find myself to be every year,
I welcome Shakespearean phrases in,
Its very theatre demands it here. ...
The sharper-eyed amongst you may recognise the picture attached to this month’s poem. It’s the cover picture [by the enormously talented Jacky Fleming] from my latest collection, and it’s here so you can imagine the scene from earlier this year when we climbed down to...