Glyndebourne’s turbine
is that active youth high
on my quick horizon/ In
my foreground a spire’s
weathercock [in uniform
…/
They repainted tall railings
set around a granite tomb
[but left metal on gates to
to curdle to flakes of rust
in old layers]/ Here Lies A
Father & Husband/ …/
There were lights & sounds
late last night in our funeral
home – busy on newly dead
[quick-quick] as subfusk inks
are let awry on diary pages …/
Number 8 Upper Uckfield Road
have laid a cross on their lawn –
it is cobbled from fence panels
I mistook it for a plague symbol… /
“It was reported pigs
were moved to safety”
as Olives Meadow [&
lowly places] readied
river defences …/
I sit at an unstopped bus stop
sheltering from Jorge’s
spit as my takeaway reflection
stares back at me
…/
Six men sit – perching –
on suffering bar stools
Six etched chunks – an
almost-even arc offset
[nearly of Stonehenge] …/
I am on a long-bet flood plain
An elevated gravel path leads
beside pumpkin-cut grimaces
Eight grin-lit detached houses
bid shameless sharp views of …/
We are among my elderly friends
& not much has changed below –
a ripped fence has been propped
with roughly sawn timbers – mere
matchwood
…/
This floor is piss-sweated
as are those swilled bowls
at Cinque Ports in Uckfield… /