Whereas the second shall be a party to the first
and the first shall be a law unto itself, for sure

it's mixed messages that, from the flood at least,
have been our lot.   Field trips will always give

back a veneer of deja vu, whatever the weather.
It's manifestly in line with government thinking

when a military landscape gets, not just a first,
but a second wind.   If desertion leaves us with

incomparable art, perhaps it's worth the gamble.
In Flanders Fields and deserts to the east, let

no guns (check our softer calibrations) put new
wigs asunder.   Treetops wear the queerest garb.


Resistance is on a scale of a – z.   Nothing much but
units of phrasing.   As scrupulous as a tearing wind

through blackthorn.   Everyone listening.   Waiting
for the liveliest spark, becoming an expert on rhyme.

So a remake then, a celebration of displaced dreams?
Did you hear the like!   As if a flower show didn't.

New colours on the cutting floor, enough to send
an actor crazy, searching out moments unfamiliar

with temporal conventions.   It's what you end up
with, surely, that counts.   How you tie the bouquet.

Addiction's actually there, say some, before you get
to the substance, but, coming from an already half-

forgotten past, it all takes time.   And, believe me,
plenty.   The role of context keeps critics wide awake.

I wouldn't be who this is if it weren't for a contrast.
You're welcome, you know it, to adjust.   And how

I admire the ensuing picture.   Whichever you pick.
And the way you took it.   Be sure to stay in touch.


Which part of the photo puzzles.   Umbrellas up, it
must rain again?   Whether you like it or not, it's

desperate, colours anxious to appeal.   Sky full and
much too real.   Past, present.   They don't exactly

coalesce, they swirl.   All loopholes and spells, as
if a downward glance might drown.   But nothing to

terrorise.   Not now limits stretch to ‘the wide sky
yonder'.   Splash hard, rinse your eyes.   Make the

words your fool.   Packed tight in his box of lights.


It's the harshest of Winters, so I'm looking at
snowbound property no-one's chosen to view.

Will it yield?   Not till at least one historical
equation's been solved  – I mean, what do you

do with the x when identity's lost in a drift?
It's raw research, conundrums never play fair.

How proud you were when the wood explained.
I like to lash down every last attention, how-

ever minute, but a wand knows better: watch
it jump when a nymph invents the first of her

deep green stories; perfect or maybe less than
perfect pitch, the past goes round and round.


Summer turns green, I'm finding myself wishing
for a sultry conversation, the kind a moon sails

uneventfully through.   One question, you could
say more than any other, is by arrangement off

the hook.   There's scale to the vanishing familiar
and its pointer's cracked.   It climbs to fall back

endlessly until you shut it down.   The hardest
part.   That heaven allows or turns a blank page

blanker.   Room for two, so I'd like to think at
every window, a presence that makes it so much

harder to see.   How the words and now it's only
the green words fetch us out, to care.   Though

I've yet to learn what a cursory scan shows up,
or the page unfolds.   How leaves burn through.

         © Peter Dent 2007