2 JULY 1988, Page 28

An Encounter

I had not come for what I found: a stone, Some faded pieties, two dates, And above all a name, my own, Confronting me: an open eye, Immobile, hard as winter nights, Relentless in its honesty, Which also was a mouth that spoke Familiar words: all flesh is grass.

And briar, my double, bramble, dock, I muttered, plantain, elder, moss.

Weeds are the last survivors. Looking round, I knew I had not come for what I found.

J. R. Maddicott