1 JULY 1989, Page 27

Here

Living here, I may nod at the seasons And leave the years uncounted. On summer Evenings, bats are pulled like threads down my Garden, squeaking their rubber soles, but signs Of change I threw a cloth over. And since Decision falls as easily as mere Snow laying patterns on the log pile, more Than ice should melt from us under the sun's Easy rising. I used to watch the day's Sun stammer morse code off bed-sit windows Out to sea, past the fishing boats, yet not Quite believing its message was for me Or that the delicate, brushed cloud could be Scrunched into blackness and thrown far beyond night.

Ian Caws