so many cow sounds and bird-overhead sounds

and leaves of all kinds sounds      occasionally a man

shouting at his dog too      which is purging itself

of unrequitedness at the moon’s silent expense

this is the countryside at night and it’s like

a famous eavesdropped story      you can tell

cars are moving in the distance but it’s only

cupping a shell to your ear level disturbance

so I’ve left the ‘sh’ of my shirt on the windowsill

to fill with spiders      I figure it might be stylish

as it is summer      it keeps away undesirables

what do you think      I couldn’t find a shell

I even heard a badger last night and was able

to congratulate it on being the largest member

of the weasel family      you should hear its footfall     

it’s also the stripiest (but that was just hearsay)

the radio’s on now Lilly and it’s Late Junction

I’m worn out with talking and the days pass slowly

so I’m going to need to go to sleep now

but please if you get this come and see me some night

I love the sound of your hands

what a day out

‘what else’ is there not to say

I haven’t broadened the vocabulary of your eyelashes

and the plant pot maybe still smells heavenly of hyacinths

            (this is a memory of a pink one

I bought you for your favourite colour      opaque

and delicious)

I can’t remember what leaves tomorrow or why

and I don’t know where it’s going or who’ll be on it

except that contractually it’s bound to involve the moon

 and a cold-sounding rhyme

            in the meantime can I have the line of your hips back please

and the smooth of your hand      thank you

                                                                               will you keep them safe for me

not that I’m expecting anything back after today     even your lips

‘in the meantime’ is the setting for this day out

shall we borrow a small house and talk in country dialects

or should it be more simply urban

with window baskets and canapés of salmon sunsets

probably farmed ones      then again maybe somewhere fabulous

like the zoo     

no      I know      a theme park      I’ll keep to the point    

we’re on all the rides (well one over and over)

and we’re dizzy eating happy junk with added serotonins

                                                                                      screw up your eyes

that cola bottle could be a max-speed avocado we’re so high

see those plastic lions risking down a one way Jurassic street     

this could be our favourite

though it seems we’ve missed a turning somewhere

for any of this to happen realistically      let’s say

                                                                                         it was a good day out all the same

whenever you are tomorrow it doesn’t feel back where I started

projection digressions    

I’m riding the slow service

and we’re going to pass

the 8 wonders of the developed world

                                                                        look

an egret      they’re new here aren’t they

and neat except for that back-quiff

mist off the river anchors us

and grapples with movement      (what

do you think of that trainspotters

it must be a relief not to need to be so precise)      but this is the free jazz train

and this is a technicality

                                                          say for example there’s a clue

in the crossword you’d get but I won’t

involving the indefinite article

and a psychological equation for poetry      where are you then

the mist is clearing allowing for some hills

to recede from me

                                   remember the way you loved me backwards to this point      it was prosaic

here’s your  anagram      leporet       clue      snow hares

would be clearly visible even though it’s winter      dunces

taking the world on solo and so fast      but who am I to judge I’m no critic

listen     the conductor has a red rose in his lapel

as this is a special occasion

                                                 and he smiles as he checks my ticket

without grudge      he must be missing somebody terribly

to be so polite   

                             I’m still moving away

from those hills like an irreversible chemical reaction

(now is that copper sulphite poisonous sir      it smells

of mango chutney (the trumpeter’s little (musical) joke      it doesn’t))      can you

tell the coda’s swinging

                                            it’ll all be over by the time

we reach the tunnel      I’m looking forward to that

as anyway I’ve forgotten my glasses

and I’m missing all the wonders for you      thanks god

for making that egret so big and so close(!)

it was almost an atmospheric change

or I’d never have detected it

                                                    the saxophone

varies where we’re going and lots of passengers

have got frightened and got off at the last stop

                                                                                     but I like you

and I’m weary of destinations and increasingly wary

pink park with ducks

we’re in the park      it’s like all the best

‘singin’ in the rain’ & ‘isn’t it a lovely day’

rain filters through your hair like unusual insects

kicking traditionally at puddles

                                                          and your heart’s in it

all there is is your pink umbrella too small

letting you be differently beautiful

complementing the happy ducks with your grey eyes

nobody here seems to be wanting the sun to come out

Dear Canute,

over the past two weeks it’s become increasingly clear to me      I feel it in the rain

we’ve been celebrating for the wrong reasons

the dancers (oh the dancers) aren’t going down to your beach tonight

it turns out their ‘footprints’ were those of a shrunken head

pod-marked with your thoughts      so maybe good for further study

this relationship with you will never work

I’m too tired and busy to even become a wave

& I’m running out of your spectacularly thrown bet-money

slipping through the dirty oxygen of an hour-glass

like fingers out of fingers to no fingers

the sea is holding its floppy fringe

(look! no hands either!)     and I know you’ve got a lot to offer

you’re up to your deck-chair in water keeping nothing back

just pockets full of stones and outmoded dances        

even from here your jokes are so simple almost nobody could be sad

I’m still glad we had our brief time together     

                                                                                         yours,

the lily-pond (to whom you never ever listened      not once)

 Notes on Contributors