(Passing through the Poetry Library,
Royal Festival Hall)
It happens now and then,
this killing time.
I’m looking at a wall of words,
as tall to me as those that cleave
the West Bank or Belfast.
Shelf upon stacked shelf:
this cache of tender conscience
an Armalite gathering dust.
Yet spines are all unequal heights,
leave ground unoccupied.
So tread the empty moors
and build a wall, outdoors.
Make local choices: whether limestone
for its grain or granite to endure.
Pack flat your rough-hewn slabs,
laying their battered faces
into a slant.
Place coping stones to crown the rise.
Wind can whistle through its heart,
find line of least resistance.
xii. 2019 – i. 2020
