but he makes himself known.

He says sad is sometimes beautiful.

He says he has a plan for me.

He asks me to imagine

the brain of a dying child.

So hard!

He says I should learn to weep more often.

He thinks this would be helpful.

Each day I am his precious one.

24

Woodwork

Children are building their teacher a coffin.

There it is in the paper, somewhere in Holland,

a good plain coffin made of many parts,

and two of the children

call each day and talk to the teacher

to keep the teacher posted. Is she happy?

She is ill but quite contented.

What will they give her to take with her

into the earth at last, or across those borders

where only teachers travel? There is dark energy there

and multiplication tables, and many children are in a room

with chisels and planes and spirit levels.

They must be making something wonderful.

Everything needs to be straight.

I made a boat, a tie-rack, a wooden spoon.

The boat sat on a mantelpiece in several different houses.

It was happy with its yellow funnel,

somewhere it is sailing. And everywhere children

are waving and working hard.

They are building their teacher a coffin.

25

Someone Was Burning the Forest

We did not know why the child was crying,

nor why he stood bare-shouldered at the window.

How had he come by those skimpy feathers?

The mother had fallen from the tower

a moment after she began to answer. I looked around

and there were many towers, also other bodies.

Now I was on the ground myself. I could hear

the child but no longer see him. Perhaps

he was still aloft. The towers were dissolving

yet surely there were trees. It was dark now

but I knew there must be many bodies.

I would need to climb to see where we might go.

26

Warm Ocean

Someone says lonely let’s go for a stroll

someone says not now

someone says it was never about the money

someone says what then

someone says a few basic rules

anger desire compassion

anger desire compassion

and then there’s a great silence

in which we all go for a stroll

clifftop ocean a few swimmers far below

+

Old women are swimming in the ocean

there’s classical music going on

so many heads bobbing and nodding

where is my lover, where is my lover

the women cry, bobbing and nodding

and they all take up the cry

and violins you know

where is my lover, where is my lover

and now the small girl is asleep

+

Three old men late afternoon

last ones left in the water

come on admiral! says one

but it’s not clear which one 27

or who to – maybe us?

they want us to watch them don’t they    no

they want us to go away    no

they want us to set a net

and spend our last days hauling in

+

Long bench where men sat once