Episodes

  • Pilgrim: Season 1 - 1977-1998.

    Pilgrim: Season 1 - 1977-1998.
    Feb 19 2026
    1 in tight lines a dozen houses line the winter wheat – already: frail bungalows with front lawns, at the village edge; homes, already, transitory as inns, and clamped to a new access road that slices though the down. diggers have quarried the chalk - upended it; torn out the clay beneath -heavy, dark,greasy as abattoir meatembedded with flints,clewingto a long-departed sea. in a web of cul-de-sacs,of silent gardensof chipboard walls history is being forgotten; the land is practicinghow to die. SNODLAND, MARCH 1977 2 clouds clogthe river’s fallen level - a dry dayat the furthest edgeof summer; at the month’salmost-final,almost-end-point, flat and still; indestructible. hay,cropped in silent meadowsrests in long gold lines; the battles to be foughtare far away;nothing is corruptible; now is all there is. THE RIVER BEULT, AUGUST 1977 3 wadein the corn wavesundisturbed; come home -there is no toll; the hip-grasswill conceal and recall; fearing no fall,the dusty greenwill restore the world, its marks, its scars - bring itto a field of sun - to this home,crushed outwithin it. NEAR CRANBROOK, AUGUST 1977 4 of coursethere are grander thingsthan this Victorian rebuildingof medieval stone; but not for me. for eight years i have beenits steadfast visitor, a pilgrim of sorts,returning to a placewhere nothingis urgent; where custom points, like transepts,to the enfoldingfields and woodsfirst written in Doomsday. THE CHURCH OF ALL SAINTS, BIRLING, MARCH 1978 5 amongst the few remaining leavesof last year’s autumn, daffodils shakein a slight breeze; they lord it over the wilderness - the stone angeldrowsy under moss; the mausoleums,rectangular, preoccupied; the crooked tombstones,dreaming of placesother than this; the sleeping columbariaspread betweenthe shot green shavingsof recent trees - defiant,redeeming. BIRLING CHURCHYARD, MARCH 1978 6 winter rainhas darkenedthe hayrick’s sides; nowa nine-hour sunexpands upon it, restores it,saves itwith lengthening days; returning all. SNODLAND, MAY 1978 7 onlyon the roadbetween the trees; onlyon Birling Hilldo i evadethe day; slip the sununder leaf; freewheelon the scarp, believing onlyin Cistern Wood and Coney Shaw,in Stonebridge and Ley; in the fields that flit by, worshipping onlythe swift dark woods, the down’s allegiantoak, and beech, and chestnut - saved by speedeach timei turn intothe ceaseless haze. ON BIRLING HILL, JUNE 1978 8 nowthe cool weaveswhite; the high dayends; the ridgesimplifies; the downlandtightens – a narrow gate,darkly green - trees opento an ageless sky; a time for nightjars, nightingales, sparrowhawks; and i amwashed away. TROTTISCLIFFE, JUNE 1978 9 this is a roadfor sunday walkers,wanderlusterswho go just so far,their communion curtailedby an absence of magic, fitted inbetween reading the papersand lunch, as is customary now. THE SNODLAND TO BIRLING ROAD, JUNE 1978 10 clouds shift; over the hillthe moon swells, the grass,dark this side,lights up - ignites a sudden thoroughfareshowing me the way,night by night,as i cycle sectionsof the old pilgrim road, all difficulties shattered, past fields of clover, cowslip;past Blackbusshe, Badgells Wood, past the Battle of Britain cross,
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    21 mins
  • The Summer Fortress: Season 2 - 1979.

    The Summer Fortress: Season 2 - 1979.
    Feb 19 2026
    TO RA AND REMEMBERING VERITY FORSYTH I hear you still clear, sure - talking to me now as you would talk to me then; a corner of the garden room; a long table laid for tea, books piled up, shadows of poets and painters stirring; listening, as you hear me say what I do not say; as you tell me what I need to hear but would not: I hear you still I hear you now, I hear you. Skona, July 1997 DATEThis cycle of poems was written in the Weald of Kent between March and September 1979; the last one 18 years later in July 1997, in Skona. 1for thisthere is alwaystime -your fragmentary willconcocts hourswhere the dayhas none,etchesa far horizonforeverin the sun. 2take only touchand that electric guess,hand to hand,till heartsrest within flesh;till your touchupon my facemoves inside. 3you would stretch out,draw me apart,for thoughyou do not know ityour timeis mine.would you want more?would you changethe tidethat carries us,sand within a stream,toward the sea?evenly, 4loving you:the picturesafein the cabinet -mine,the dare to remove;the white palmsstick with sweatnow summer comes. 5knives cut -and death's unknowing,cells grow and bones will break,and still,the starting point -your face,ghosts all the change;leaves -silence,a space for shadows;a space to turn within;and lie at bay. 6your cryhollows the hour,touches starsthat won't explode:and break their hold.butcan hurl javelinsup at space 7you may not believe it but,after the battle,rain washed the bloodonto the village streets,into the Weald.night fallson the Bloody Mountain;a bird pullsagainst empty light;bats fold into theoutline of trees,black on black.above usa harvest moonburns a circle in the sky. 8let us stay,smoke awhilewalk between the silver treesof the Cinders track.night holds us;we liebeside a water tank,listening;waterdrippingdrop by dropwaitingwhere nothing movesthe moment on,where nothing moves.where the airis cool and grassy 9your heart is high,sweeping high:tempers,slackens, on again,states of difference -not by joiningI, in love,would move. 10inyour awkward beautythe landscape breatheswith you;I restI play;in skiesthe peacocks fly. 11do not hold back;you should not fearyou shinefor youhave the brightest light;and shineas life. 12come,we will evade this,armour ourselvesas night checks day;and a smooth sly lightslides through the orchards.thelast bird songsdrain the dayinto a shoal of trees.we can evade all this. 13we will become fond of these days;go over them tirelesslyas armchair generalsover maps.we lay downthe living deathlike bottlesin a cellar;effortlessly. 14the abacus movesbut I will not;its beads have a sort of rhythm,a pretended order.do not listen.silence has a safer sound;even calls the directionsof a hidden road,easily missed. 15i 'd rather notthink;or imagine,know,or evensuspect,grieve,celebrate,wonder.I want tolive easy.whyshould I be troubled? 16yoursis the gift that brings together,that calls me inthat keeps me here;your armsopen;your imprinthauntsyour body,is a barrier of words. 17the train passes placeswhere nothing has changed,where life has gone onjust the sameall the timeI have beenso caught up.it will go on the samewhen this ends; 18dailythe state deepensand I concedeto this roundand to thatthe bets I placethe game I play,the cards that fallfar shortof what I make. 19you smile:the knife you wieldopens the knotthe quickest way,I saw youwalking in fields,a dancer,naked,slender as a scorpion.dares alldo you knowwhat we do? 20lost timeis life's regret:death guilds its share,the daysrob and bleed,and timesmashes easily as glass.the calendarbreaks a little more each day. 21love in distance,and,all the timeI knowthat behind mehe kisses you;youdo not knowhis blooded lipssmear and conquer.each returnyou seegets closer. 22you turnyour eyes,catch up my glance;hold itlike a mirror,distortingby allit cannot see. 23he had madea plaything of fear;caught it in the mirrorwith the sun.autumn will rushbefore the Kentish hopsto dredge his glass -and the image,unreflected,noiselessly dies out. 24death kisses you;the offering of sunsgluts in your heart;an unaccounting changeremoves your hand.you wake;but the rage for lifesleeps on. ...
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    11 mins
  • Border Lands: Season 3 - 1981-1983.

    Border Lands: Season 3 - 1981-1983.
    Feb 19 2026
    march 1981 having this, no fantastic hate can rob you; not devils, not warriors, not demons; nor even angels, spying from their steep slopes, nothing, truly nothing can rob you – nor even this town, that has a history of theft and mutilation:the churches empty, the homes neglected the parks choaked with weeds. you do not need to stay.you do not need to pay.april 1981i’ve not wordsenough to say - i saw you walkingon the road today,nor eyes prepared to follow:folly ,prey.may i 1981eclipsing streets,a steady shore,an ordered crashof waves;through sunlight, shafts,marbled cloudsa far, far out horizon,unreachable;unbreachable.may ii 1981i amin envy of love;i am in envyof these two figures strong as the sun.i am in envy.june 1981how far do seas stretch?here, my love;beach, sand, dunes,and rocks, rising, cliffs, rising:we sit, hiddenin stumpyheat-drenched grass;a high hollow,spread with towels, a picnic, cigarettes:and two tight bodiescurled like babesobserving visions.july 1981on this shore – on every shorethe sea rolls, spreads,swobsexpandsexplainsbut we –you and i –we are fastened like limpets.we cannot leave.september i 1981the wavesof last night’s stormlinger, loiterinsistendure: they stir still;they stir now,white, wild, whippingthe heavy sea is not becalmed;it slaps on jetties,smashes the sea walls,breaks up the boats;and we must shelter.september ii,1981i have cometo meet myself again –to catch up.find fault,find favour.it is the same homing, bleak sea,the same empty horizonblotted out by mist.my heart gives into it;beatslike a forbearing tide.october 1981behind me a television towerfeeds the air,feeds a hundred thousandunseen homes;feeds them all, gannetsrazorbills, gulls greedy as Ahabwith a rattle of stodgy voicesi cannot hear,mayday signalsfor the dying dayfor the yearning empty night.november i, 1981november.the pebbles are smooth,grey, oval, wet;they slide,roll,rattle;children gather driftwood;build bonfires.the inlet – south beach - lies under a muscle of white cloud;wheeling waveswhiten,spreada pale disappearing line;we breathe airno city has maintained;i sit on a washed uptree trunkgreatest of all.november ii 1981just above the line thrownby the strongest wave;just at that pointwhere the sand shelves,where it is wet, softer, darkerjust at that point – that is where the people group where the people watch, where they walkthrow stones;the pensioner too,in his fawn coat,we are just at that point – each day,same time, same placebeside the shifting sea.december 1981 hallo there.hey!hallo!i see my faceunder the street light;i see that when this passionhas gonethe shop’s glass window will remainreflecting it all back;everything bloody thingbut hazy, stickywith salt,it is my father confessormy witness to others who walk,like icatching their faces,in this unkind abrupt waylong before they are ready to own up; catching their features too soonin the vast unending night.february 1982 lean mountainsrise seaward,rock on rock;thin fields stretch,taut as canvassthe first lightgilds the couch grassacross Swyddffynnon,fills the hollowsfrom Pontrhydfendigaidto Ystrad Meurigruns goldover Cambria.march i 1982 unspeaking, we’ve watched the daywake and slide unfelt;old room in an empty house.our bodies lie still,unspent;under the huge grey skythere is no trade.march ii 1982 brieflyi remember lying in your lap,my stock against the nightelectrically charged,incriminated;my fingers familiareach contour knownas my own,the warmth and textureof your feckless flesh.april 1982her eyes coilaround a worldi cannot see;in her headare the smiles of friends,and elders,smiling sadly,as they will smilewhen she is dead.may i1982living by the seawe have missed the firstgraffiti of spring,the scrawl of buds on bushthe harsh soft hasty greenthe pebble beach is our park, cold and harduntranslated, unpreserved,seen in flashesmoment by momentwithout memory.childless,parentless.may ii 1982but for thisthere is no other world;this is the magic of your face,the fascination,the hidden sea - waves rearrange the light;currents coil beneathlike massive ropesencrusted with barnacleswrenching the waterdragging it this wayand thatdragging it into a warren of rolling whitecaps.this is the only place for love;this time my heart will take its ancient pathunseen.may iii 1982somewhere, somehow, something will end;just not be there; we’ll wonder why we ever looked;adjoin, ajar,elude, escape – the door will neverclose again.will never.may iv 1982remember that old image of summer;the blooming trees,heavy with green;the flower crowd and scent – someone sittingnear the house; someone playingthe music of old scores on the piano?it never was. get up and go; the door is open.may v 1982i cannot see it in your eyes, the lover, mistress, master - it is only the ocean i see –the eternal cross of lightdimming in the ...
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    24 mins
  • Songs Without Music: Season 4 - 1985.

    Songs Without Music: Season 4 - 1985.
    Feb 19 2026
    So Watch So watch my flesh decayand see how beautifully it goes;like something asking to be loved;like you, too shy to ask meto your room;marks that will survive are marks on skin and mind:not you with me,not face to face;and only this,a last decaypitching to hide itselfwhen each has gone their way. Cause Under empty skiesair finds no flags;people march but the bannersare burnt; the worldis bleeding into hell,and into hellthe worldbetrayed. My fist is flat,the truth is traded;there is nothing left to kill foror to honour. the worldis bleeding into hell,and into hellthe worldbetrayed. Angel I bought a glass palace in Paradisewith a pool and fifty rooms;and off its slender flagstaffI can fly to the moon. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. I’m alive and free so look at meI dream at the top of the sky;my fingertips are strips of jade -there’s no way I can die. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. Welcome, roll up, welcome,watch kings and princes sigh;they beg to use my golden wings.they beg to learn to fly. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. City of Fear Last night I flew over the city of fear;dark coated people came down the streets;they had angel eyes and shrank from light;they looked at me and wished to fly -but they couldn’t grow wings. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. Moon high, my rocket feathers carry me freeI see the late night-clubs open up,the curtains of private room drift apart;the battle’s over, but in coloured light,the battle starts again. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. People wait with wet wide eyes but the gods have gone,the night goes on;coins rattle in their mouthsthe gates have closed. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. Heros Come kill the heroes,tear the faces from the walls;there’s no misleadingleads us closerto Hell. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. Pictures in magazinesblow up their public lives;the roles they playkill for usand lie. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. Wars won in cinemasare all we never were;and all we ever arejust turns to dust. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. River Night-time holds me down and emptyopen to the flood;nothing stops the river breaking in,stops the riverbreaking me. Not sleeping, not waking,I’m trapped in the dark –cold shadows surround meclosing around me;it’s the dream worldof a lost worldof a world that never was. Faces, and the colours tastedturn the years I have not lived;take the lost road back,take the roadunsaid. Not sleeping, not waking,I’m trapped in the dark –cold shadows surround meclosing around me;it’s the dream worldof a lost worldof a world that never was. Cold City In rooms and bars the city throughI see you face the same;every word and touch we makerecalls our needs again. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. Yet when love moves and speaksits eyes are flat and closed;and every time we want to giveit suddenly lets go. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. We scare of loving, loosing dreamswith this love that must not saywith this love that cannot everdeclare itself again. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. So hold me on your fi...
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    12 mins
  • After the Ball: Season 5 - 1986.

    After the Ball: Season 5 - 1986.
    Feb 19 2026
    I GIRLS, AND BOY Early sun dissolves the mist; bottles and chairs disrupt paths, paving, lawns; deer keep a cautious distance in parkland trees. On high-backed wicker chairs five girls talk, smoke; contractors dismantle tents, lights; fruit strung on green wire along boughs. At a table nearbya boy sits alone,playing cards. IIGIRL, AND BOYS Her hair is blonde,expensive,cut no ordinary way. Her feet rest on a footstoolon the grass. The dress she wearshas small seed pearlssewn on silk. the arm that almost touches him - does not move. She watches,Looking above his eyes. She watches. He runs his fingersthrough his hair,plays with the knotof his white bow tie; notes the girls who talk,notes the girl in silk; notes the boyplaying cards ,nearby.​​​​ IIIBOYS I watch you,as I watch myself,and know the breechthat undercuts your poise; the face, disfiguredby its rebounding image, clouded by what standard partsit can't extract. The picture blurs,but does not hidethe other guests departingin their pairs. IVME, YOU, HER The band is striking jazz tunes; last tunes; light breaksthrough the marquee, draws to shape gothic buildings, trees beyond the parklit by the lightsof early motorists. The moon shrivelsin the opening sky, the blind spot grows: and sorrow, snared; the heart, too, a castle without walls an accomplice,in search of an assailant You meet my glance, and stretch your arm to her, fall in behind the pairthat goes aheadand the one that follows on. ​​​​ VBOY, BOY Behind the doorthe recent worldis lost, and left behind. This is your territory, I know: these trees, this house, this lane,cleared by the departing taxi; but you have not arrived herelike this before; you have watched me,but my voice is alien – you have not seen eyes like mine;not fingers, jaw, nape. I am not an old friend, I am the visitoryou have always known; the stranger within,betraying with a kiss,the kiss that waits. VIMOONWALKER There is water on the moon; and though I know - sitting, almost close, watching the sun slidebetween solider trees – though I know - almost touching; the cigarette's blue smokerising untasted – though I knowwhat we are here forby all we do not say; though I knowthere is water on the moon; though I knowthe names of Roman senators, the parts of trees, the rules of games, I do not know what we make room forhere and nowbelow the tall trees of the wood. VIICHILD​These gestures know the forcebehind lost words; articulate what has closedwith a homing cry, as if the way my fingershold your headalone could touchthe anguish and the joy, the child behindthe adult's facewhose eyes close in relief. You sleep beside menervous to each move. Does the arm that holds meknows who it holds? Am I your mother,brother, lover? Who holds youwhen you sleep alone,who holds you? VIIISOLOIST If I were not so tiredI would spend the nightwatching you sleep; watching your fingerstighten and relax; your eyelids tremble; open,to what the morning will eclipse. If I could trust myselfto care a little less,I would wake you,play this aching gameby patient rules; but though the nightis pitched so quietyou singand sing in me.​​​​​ IXMIGRANT Because I have waited; because I have waited so long; because I have waitedbeside old friends and even strangers, and those grown tired of waiting; because of all of this, all this and more; because I have waited,keeping you for a long journey, I have not learnthow to read the stars I have not learnt the migrant paths I have not learnt which trackslead across the frontier....
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    12 mins
  • At The Volcano: Season 6 - 1995.

    At The Volcano: Season 6 - 1995.
    Feb 19 2026
    ONE Wholly beautiful, this is a remote withdrawn unsaid place; knowing nothing, wisdom held unaided. The volcano, burst, blistered, blasted before time, rises above savannah, autonomous. Nothing of what I have left behind has followed me here: no bars, or clubs, or safari parks swarming with mutinous animals; there are no buildings here,no cables, no pylons, nothing. There is nothing,nothing; there are no roads even, nor walls, bridges, hospitals,barbers, butchers, pharmacies; museums are absent; and shops,and markets selling fruitand sentimental knick-knacks. TWO Even the ruinsaround this place have still to be built,lived in, fought for, destroyed by monsoon rains, by dead and dated wars,and rebelshiding from the recent defeatsof old conflictsthat never end; there are just trees; just podo treesrising like citadelsaround the titanic flanksof the volcano; trunksthirty feet round; their branchesforking low,twisting,archinginto artless beams,hewn lintels,giant joists; a stronghold,spontaneous, animate,built in a high lapsed land, soaringabove bordersthat have worn into wasted lines,pale snaking imprintswoven invisiblybetween every spur and stream, climbing the sides,between ridges and peaks,vents, conduits, lakes – the crater, cloistered, limitless: every inch of every borderremembered in old, disputed books in archives in Nairobi and Kampala; in the stories the tribespeopletell each otherevery breaking dayin villages far, far away. THREE Mostly though, there are no people here:no trippers; no travellers, tourists, not even residents; just me, and one bemused young driversmoking through a packof Marlboro lights. Especially, there are no houses,no homes or gardens; no streets or settlements. In this place -in this place here – no cars soundno buses blare their loud exhausted horns; there are no windowsto openfor music to escape from; conversation to drift from no drilling, grinding, crashing, crunching,no barking dogsor phones, no people talking, shouting, singing,nor even passing each other,to pass the daywith a nod, a “Hi,” a “Humm”. In this place herethere are no rooms filled with the ordinary thingsof lifeor of objects passed from one generation to the next. In this place hereit is the trees that talk,that chatter and discoursein sudden winds; it is the birds that speak, confer, negotiate,the buzzards, bustards, cuckoos, kites; and the waterfalls, slapping over a hundred meters of rock,the hot springs bubbling, and hyenas baying at a cornered buffalo. In this placeit is the sounds you cannot hearyou notice first and last:the stealthy leopard,the bushbucks, cobras, lizards. This is a placethat leaves no trace. FOUR I have climbed herequite alone,leaving the jeepwhere the level groundran out. At the end of a ragged treadof off-road tyresthe bush rolls, scrub to forest; long burnt grass - the colour of lions –reaches to the forest on the mountain’s sheer as tombstones sides; the slopes narrow to a lawless green, strip out light,break spaceinto an elaborate mazeonly animals can navigate,following the antique pathsmade by wild elephants. You hear them,travelling by night,scouring the salt caves,their tusks - like the claws of massive diggers -carving deep channelsinto the volcano’s heart. Jungledefends the cancelled land,morphs into thick shadows,repeating and repeatingall that it is; fugitive tracks -the tread of wary animals - blur and disappear,snaking off in the sombre light, the measured lunatic murmur of insectstwists in tail-winds. Colobus move. FIVE Python creepers curtain from forty-metre trees; camphor, redwood, juniper, rebuffthe shrinking sun. A hungry old insistent nightbegins to fall; and in the evening miststhe volcanoappears and disappears; floats,through the turning yearssince before the day was late; a templeover the world it made; a dreamland built in fire and ash in tephra, cinders, lava, a guarded shangri-lawhose gods have namesnow quite forgotten(if they were ever known at all). Here, the jehovahsare perfect, imperfect,perpetually lingering onheedless of permissionscraving not to know
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    12 mins
  • The Cartographer's Art: Season 7 - 1998.

    The Cartographer's Art: Season 7 - 1998.
    Feb 19 2026
    Ley lines What remains are the maps, laying, like ley lines, the journeys of men who have died, or simply disappeared; the journals others have remembered, building the picture from a few surviving fragments quoted in the books of those who followed. Charts swallow charts,pass on the same fantastic contours -corkscrewing coastlines,pulling out modest deltasinto uncharted seas,and, faithfully,taking eacha little furtheras if a returning sailorwhispered on the home dockthat the journey was furtherthan the old maps had implied. Sometimes,a new hand intervenes,adding an island,peppering, with cities, the board alluvial plainsof a dreaming land;gouging out a fierce, flamboyant river; but even the navigatorsdo not knowwhich of the strange sea beastspreying on the edges of each terrainare the ones to fear; or which rivers will take us inland,before vanishinglike streams on chalkbeneath the walls of the real city,the one that is mentionedin the first accounts? City Without Seasons Because the city has no seasons;because the house beneath the downs was soldit is that summer that holds,its days turning at the end of unfamiliar roads,dry and culpable:forever out of reach. I remember the order of things -sloes, leading a rush of starry blossoms:apple, pear, cherry, plum;fountains of white hawthorn flowing before the chestnut;the chestnut opening before the beech; I knew what would flower when,hawkweed along hedges;poppies banking on high verges;rowans reddening overhead:just now; and now,the yearshave rolled to this point,to this impounded summerrooted in another landscape, ghosted by the co-ordinatesof an older map: the hill is swept by trees;the gate is closed.someone else is in the yellow house. Wherever you lie,come out;the city walls are not so wide:you walk my streets,shop in my shops wherever you are,come out. Daylight shrinks;leaves gather;along the old drivecrocuses bloomwith tiny purple wingslike birds escaping south. The city calls down long dark evenings,faces flash-frozenin the street. Wherever you are,come out It is time,It is time. Forgotten Bounty It stays -that memory of flying once – vassal states break free,daring all. The new frontiersare all the News reports.Journalists speak of citieslost decades ago;forgotten routes reopen,fresh boundaries framethe unsurvayed new nationsrising from the blank expanseof disregarded maps. Although the same autumn bonfiresmoulders at the edge of the Hyde Parkit is all changed: the unending summerhas taken us from early lighted roomsdrawn us outinto a world we thought we knew,and have to learn again. I saw youbecause it was too early to go homebecause the party before was dullbecause I chose that place, randomly, and it is always the ease I remember;the easeand your voice moving us on. All around the city dims,shrinking space before usto a single routeremembering the older roadsthat lie beneath the asphalt. All Night Now all night longbeside you burnand fold the frozen stars away;the silver night,secured and safe,floods out across my dreams; within my armsagain you turn -the sweet grassand the silent sky -and all forgotten bounty breakswithin the space we lie. Now It Is Cold Why go, now it is cold?Already the street lights burnand the park gates are fastened;stay. The air is still;the distant traffic rounds invisiblyin cold blue lanes below; here,our fingers movefrom arm to face,from lip to ear,reading like blind men,reading. Behind these blindsthe distant worldis flat and closed; stay. Learning By Letter Learning by letterI link the points of your life,the picture growing weekly,cards, tapes, scraps of paperdispatched, received weekly,postmarking the route we take,laying down a sensethat we had metbefore we learntthe adult arts of camouflage. I lean against youcaught by the reboundingdifferences of image,a long lost freedomreturningon forgotten tidesflooding the recent landreassigning old boundaries,throwing out links like landing ropesuntil the dreaming jetties fill. The River Alone in the houseI see the river as a late traveller might,a winding path cutting through low hills. Colours change with an unreal haste;you do not see them movebut where before it was blue,now it is crimson;where it was whitenow it is gold. Shadows surface from shapes,trees fall out of focus. It is colder. Night binds the leafy lawns;birds seek out a placeon bare boughs. Behind the sirens of occasional bargesit is quiet; smoke rises in thin blue columns. The sun has sunk behind the hillsleaving a smudge of pinksilhouetting the old forestwhere kings have hunted,waged wars, built places, gone,leaving this a...
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    11 mins
  • The House We Share: Season 8 - 1998-2001.

    The House We Share: Season 8 - 1998-2001.
    Feb 19 2026
    1 Birch The birch boughs do not stir or sigh though the world is spinning. Oxford, March 1998 2 Here Comes The Spring I’d Stop Here comes the spring I’d stop, the buds I’d freeze before they fleck the hedgerows to a haze of green; here comesthe shining grass,the bulbs,the early blossom,the tips of growthswelling unstoppablyon the ends of brancheseverywhere; this is the springI’d halt, returning time to a timebefore we knewyou were to die,so we could play those daysover again,painless and manageable,discreet carriers of a worldwe could understand,and of a god still one of love. England, March 1998 I’m Not The Exile You Know I am not the exileyou know,thrown upby a distant coup, thrown offby a war,thrown outby a sudden dictator, yet my countryhas vanished too, its room reclaimedfrom far away, its colours no clearerthan I can keep them, its daily patterns tracedbehind each day. Oxford, May 1998 With Micky Tonightthe air is dark and smooth;we sitrecovering,the room muffled,cooledby an air-conditioner; and how I need you,your still arms,your sound,your smell,and tonight,especially, your love, your fingersbrushing my foreheadlightly,brushing it, bringing backa lost fortressamidst the pain. Aswan, April 1998 Daylight Nowthe summerdoes not wait, will not wait, cannot; nothing stopsthe lightflooding ahead, flushing outthe end of day London, May 1998 How Do I Make You Laugh How do I make you laughwhen the bad newswill ever come, when you tell methat she fell on the half-step, or could not sleep, or slept too much; how do I make you laughwhen you tell meshe could not eat, that it is harder to find the airto make the wordsshe wants to say; that the machines have side effects,that now the drugs do nothing, that she is dying, fully awake,in greatest need, yet always – always – as she is: how do I make you laugh then,when our world is broken? Oxford, May 1998 Being There Sometimes this early summerhas tricked me out of grief,fetching me into a worldwhere the disease has retreated,taking with it each terrible promisein its long, random decline; you move in your wheelchair still,but the fear of losing youhas been pushed backat least a dozen years: you can still enjoy the garden, travel,watch your grandchildren grow a little older,enjoy the ordinary rituals of love - and be there –always – for me. Oxford, May 1998 Tiger Hourly your dyinglies between us, a crouching tigerpoised- even as we hold you – when you struggle to rise; when you fight to rest; Oxford, June 1998 Where I Am You are not dying here. From where I amI see you walkingon the terraceabove the Adyah, kicking water in anL-shaped pool, playing tennison the courtby the banyan tree. you are not dying here; London, July 1998 Station I expect you now,this evening,at this – and every - station, walking out to greet me, your simple movementclaiming each platform, each airport, home; each city, town and village; claiming each space -for us, forever; I expect you now;I expect you here. Plymouth, July 1998 What If What ifwhat youwantedyou had? What ifwhat should bewas; what if? What then? Oxford, August 1998 Remembering It’s not my painthat hurts, but time, moving again just next door; the voices of childrenrise and fall, call,as you struggle for breath. It is time that hurts. Time. Oxford, August 1998 Phone Call Although your fingersmove a little lessyour strong voicefills the phone,charges the line, charges me. You are not old enoughto be dying; stay: you cannot go. Oxford, August 1998 This Lovely Month This lovely monthis full of death; how do I hold the day,to halt the night I dread? Oxfo...
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    44 mins