To the bricked-up house at the end of the world,
No windows, no roof, a place for things gone wrong
And now a place for someone's restless, sleepless contrivance;
The light points fingers across the starred sheet of sky
In the darkening folds of its iris
The cold comes in with shudders of the morning.
It's visitors; whether merchants or thieves,
Perhaps an agent to survey the bones
Inhaling in the painted white-brick rib-cage
Of this dwelling; but I decide at the end
This can be no-one else but a gardener
A gardener whose roses are out of season,
But then he tells me "No. No. It is the shadows
Are coming across the lawn so blooming fast you see
There's no time to plant,
And we have no-one looking out
No-one sees the lawn,
Just miles and miles of fractured road
Through which I think someone was watching me,
But as for now I'm looking for my shadow,
And the smashed windows and the abandoned stone
And the unbelievable augury of this morning's crawl
This stuttering memory has become my home."
The sun sets. No more can I walk up his garden path
Or mine, where faint unamable flowers chatter
Morning to night, inquisitors
Take up different voices across the patio
But "who are you, that you said..."
"And who am I?" "No who am I? Who am I
Who is the mover of these stones,
And in some fallen garden shed whose bones?"
More hard stuff has gone round, more fertiliser
More dashed hopes and miracle growth,
Than ever I could have laid for certain footing;
In the bricked-up house there's no end to the world
Nor man who tries to hide himself in soil.