The earth’s complications meet
in Neepsend Lane  – this puddle
is both grave and mirror:
Crunchie wrapper, blown blossom
of cow parsley, cloud.

*

A Beckett and sons
left these ribs of a building:
lost sockets, rivets, hinges.
Goldfinches flit out
through the hopscotched window panes.

*

Sunday afternoon. Shut gates.
Anxious emptiness of road
that swifts shriek across.
Bindweed and weld close over
All repair work undertaken.

*

Listen to John Barron reading his poems on location here.