‘All the poems
Are brief and tremulous
No longer vast and symphonic
Cries to be pitied
Not heralded
This a terrible procession of words
Shuffling from transitory joy
To lasting despair
On this stormy day
The sea is slats of colour
Blue
Green
Black
After the poem
Mid the storm
I will sit with a pen
And then start again
This tiptoe back to the lost
Intimacy.’
.