Africa

for John Haynes



Through the whitewash and watering holes of Cowplain,

along the cambers, ruts and rollercoasters of Ryde,

and at the visionary edge of Hatchet Lane

 

no vuvuzela or lovebird or lion king

but a sanctus broadcast over sand, chalk,

clay, unending rapefields, the low swing

 

of a bushbaby entering Hunts by night,

Dido's lament at the side of the road to Havant,

a festival of black humour on the Isle of Wight.

 

So It Runs
 

like the ink

on Magna Carta

 

like the sewage

outflow at Barking

 

tides of liberty

tides of oppression

 

Traitor's Gate

or Thames Gateway

 

days of Frost Fair

nights of Blitz

 

the tug that steams

the Fighting Temeraire

 

into a setting sun

or a rising sun

 

Händel to Handel

Spenser to Spencer

 

the hulks in the marshes

the bodies, the toll

 

of the Bowebell

and the Marchioness

 

earthly paradise

earth hath not anything

 

rain, steam, speed

a lost Maidenhead

 

so it runs

with no barrier

 

except the Barrier

and in my memory

 

a few sandbags

 

The Oak Tree

stands before the conifer plantation
 
conducting late Sibelius:
 


if we could hear it, it would start

with shrill shrieks, then lean

 

to a rocking rhythm in the strings,

a flute melody, a growl

 

from the brass like Prospero

containing his anger, Ariel's

 

shiver, an invitation for

lightning to strike -

 

but there is nothing to be heard

in the silence ringing

 

since 1929.