Taking up the cable
that hauls the Summer Rose
above the tideline
Mrs E backs her ancient tractor
(a clanking yellow growler)
out towards the sea

In the far distance
hazy where the Trent is
(although you cannot see it)
great land-ships lay
in tight formation
anchored down the valley

At night it's all lights

I remember the burning of the bowstring
the bloody welt 
along the inside of my forearm
the arrow not really flying
a wobbling sort of flight 
falling short of the target
as Richard Greene
an outlaw in tights
stood beneath a spreading oak
hands on belted hips
and threw his head back
laughing

What remains of the Seagull
sits beached on a low rise
behind the donkey enclosure
at the arse end of the garden centre

A blue sky with patchy clouds
Baroque clouds with curlicues
and flattish undersides
marching out to sea

           *        

See, down below
a striped man walks the marsh
He could be Magwitch
a desperate escapee
clapped in invisible irons

The day it all went wrong
became to much
enough to flee the house
he decamped to the jungle
backpack stuffed with papers
dirty grey bandana
and a new American accent

At dusk, dirt-faced and cagey
he patrols the bandstand
scouts ornamental ponds
checks the great stone lion
for booby traps
pits with sharpened stakes
snipers in the trees

(for Bill H)

He leans in to the speaker
The feedback runs right through him
each cell bathed in sound

He doesn't know it yet
how waves at certain amplitudes
at certain volumes
over time

They must have been the rage once
the apogee of cool
at the dawning of the Space Age
or maybe shortly after - 
rotating dials and numbers
like something from a jukebox 
or borrowed from a pinball
a spinner in a bubble
to show the fuel is running

Listening to the drone
of an underpowered motorcycle

struggling to make the Bypass hills
fading into the distance

imagining where it is
where it's got to now

and again, now

dreaming where it's going
listening hard 

( not quite - not yet )

The blokes at the city dump know their stuff
Each is assigned to a numbered station

the more experienced keeping two in play
Men in orange hi-vis dot the site

It's a noisy place, so there is much shouting
and pointing and waving of arms

At 'Electricals' I am politely instructed not to mix
a dead kettle with the hi-fi's and computers

and to put any batteries in the relevant boxes
on the battered table marked 'Batteries'

It's a drive-through site with two lanes
By chance or good fortune I choose the inside

queuing on the rise towards the compactors
with our broken garden furniture in the back

Inching forward, window open, glad to find
some shade - I notice they are closing soon

Near the top I see that we are being marshalled
by a man with two traffic cones and a scowl

alternately blocking off and releasing us
one lane at a time

The man, let's call him Dave, looks unhappy
as he leans towards each driver in turn

asking what they have in the back
telling them which station to drive to

When it's my turn I lean out, casually
to tell him what I've got. Dave lets rip:

'They fucking know, every bastard knows
it's fucking obvious

one lane for dumping, one lane for driving through!
They just don't fucking care'

'It's a good system, logical, although there's actually
no sign at the entrance to say which lane is which'

is what I do not say to Dave
as he checks his watch and waves me through