2 MARCH 1996, Page 36

At Berry Hill

This afternoon, nothing rests. Traffic presses over the brow of the hill; tortoiseshells dip over the buddleia and the thistles.

The wind flaps and a newspaper rustles.

On the back wall of the garden, time passes in shadow I shelter in to compose verses.

While inside at the piano, a little girl's hands chase up and down her prepared scales.

John Gohorry