for taking things lightly, not one for caution

on those roller-coasting lanes over the coves and inlets.

Robinson’s radio—good news on the weather front:

sunshine mainly with bulletins of rain.

At the stately home, his boots impounded for a pair

of plastic overshoes, then warned for touching this

and brushing that and nudging the other. Robinson

to himself: unclean, unclean. Back at the room,

Robinson damned if he’ll pay an extra pound

for a plug for the bath, soaking for an hour at least

with his heel in the hole. Then without a towel

drying off on the curtain. Typical, Robinson. Typical.

Awake all night, a man in the next room coughing

like a seal. Down on the shore the moon like a torch;

whichever way he walks it finds him, follows him,

will not flinch when he spins round to surprise it,

and in that way reminds him.

THE DEAD SEA POEMS

And I was travelling lightly, barefoot

over bedrock, then through lands that were stitched

with breadplant and camomile. Or was it

burdock? For a living I was driving

a river of goats towards clean water,

when one of the herd cut loose to a cave

on the skyline. To flush it out, I shaped

a sling from a length of cotton bandage,

or was it a blanket, then launched a rock

at the target, which let out a racket—

the tell-tale sound of man-made objects.

Inside the cave like a set of skittles

stood a dozen caskets, and each one gasped—

a little theatrically perhaps—

when opened, then gave out a breath of musk

and pollen, and reaching down through cool sand

I found poems written in my own hand.

Being greatly in need of food and clothing,

and out of pocket, I let the lot go

for twelve times nothing, but saw them again

this spring, on public display, out of reach

under infrared and ultrasonic,

apparently worth an absolute packet.

Knowing now the price of my early art

I have gone some way towards taking it all

to heart, by bearing it all in mind, like

praying, saying it over and over

at night, by singing the whole of the work

to myself, every page of that innocent,

everyday, effortless verse, of which this

is the first.

MAN WITH A GOLF BALL HEART

They set about him with a knife and fork, I heard,

and spooned it out. Dunlop, dimpled, perfectly hard.

It bounced on stone but not on softer ground—they made

a note of that. They slit the skin—a leathery,

rubbery, eyelid thing—and further in, three miles

of gut or string, elastic. Inside that, a pouch

or sac of pearl-white balm or gloss, like Copydex.

It weighed in at the low end of the litmus test

but wouldn’t burn, and tasted bitter, bad, resin

perhaps from a tree or plant. And it gave off gas

that caused them all to weep when they inspected it.

That heart had been an apple once, they reckoned. Green.