Breda Rainey you would
hammock in the rainy box
chaps sodden from the night dew.
Breda Rainey you wear
tiny leaves of the hedgerow
in your hair.
Breda Rainey you are,
though you heave a pushchair,
forever garlanded in box.
The Weight of Words
The number of all the raindrops that have ever fallen on England
raised to the birth cries of every child ever born
times the sobs of every unrequited lover since Eden
plus all the flakes of snow that ever fell on Japan,
would not outweigh a pinch of cotton
as would make a pillow for a dormouse.
Canal of Days
Life is a canal, on which we are narrow boats
with no reverse gear.
Each night, each sleep, is a lock.
We enter the lock and the water of yesterday is released,
till we emerge into tomorrow, to another gated day.
Behind us and above that again,
lie the days gone by. Ahead, only today,
its prospect, its gate, its fall.
Gone the hundreds, hail the one.
Oh lucky swans!