The plane trees turn Disillusioned leaves Quite early this year The Dutch elm bug is on his holidays While we sneak out To the dregs of seaside towns A breeze, gull-hollow in the mouth Of a tipped over flagon The day has that wormed-through look Of driftwood and premature age The gulls flock In that senescent, rough drawn game Of wings unfolding In hearts and crosses Someone poured out petrol on the sea Bursting when the sinking sun, dissolved In match-flare quickness Dragged down with waning hostility, a smoking sky As if no-one, in the semi-dark, could still be inflamed I know you know the stars are embers There is a parenthesis somewhere here Time will only take you so far From the edge we see the remnant light Why – I don’t know why That died in self-effacement A shoreline’s length ago
