Marsh Air I

Its very silhouette was an echo of fancy paint
approached on time, I thought, to drive hands down
the throat in a second with nothing much to tell

Off in a whistle soon she was forced to write his type
so what must scarcely exist was drawn and died free
of air and local looks back into the time of this.

Better ventures rock in flat belief and he loves the
feeling used by lines to remind him of remains to visit,
or to fling as a piece in the sack out on her only ground,

yet then talkative in the open window curving down
like a curtain on themselves and a book. I eat and read
wraiths or moors, thought tones madly for a moment settle

like steel out of my face watched to nod, go on folded up
with him. Rest was strange, a fret scent over later feet
down a flight for all to go and see why air terrifies a name:

as well drop the skin pinned now when this little stage
broke well or couldn’t fancy down the feeling before dinner.
Just halt there in the wind, as so often death may come up

on one of these days caught by a note fired three times
then resumed in front of his own attention, a life to be held
on the other side of the wound after things rigidly said,

without saying which is such fun for all of that waving
in a burst of unsuitable light or panic reduced and removed
to babble of what they call a seagull glowing and passing.

Marsh Air XII

Intent on one to multiply a sudden voice from an old
dream into a murmur I know, the time is bits and scraps
to understand how always geography could be animals as such
and be more than you must be every day to always last

Made out of the blue, others buried in earth or turned
to ash at last its humanity must begin to listen at night
vigilant under the ropes to question words that like stopping
for breath or saying what pearl that lukewarm adjacency!

A further moment is an instant now above this brief stay
to uncord all the regulated tracts of time into something anyhow
alive in a mouth and its heady movements. What now happens
in spite of the very calm aspens finds each the lower witness

The movements they cause humanity piled with age dust
with more forgotten words in their satchel eyes and dormant ears
rest briefly by my more than only slightly known headway
trying to utter sackfuls of no stone untermed, no stone given to the mud.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences