the sound of the trees is
and I'm still here
staring when I should be bathing
it's late, the bike's asleep on its feet.
the fields hang to the sun by
when the grass breathes, things fall.
the luminous underneath of a moth.
and a blackbird
mouth to the glow of the hour in
who left the light on the step?
what is the pace of a glance?
the man at the wheel signs his speed
on the ringroad
right here in my reach, time is as
thick as stone
and as thin as a flying strand
it's night and somebody's
pushing his mower home
to the moon
· From New Writing 12, edited by Blake
Morrison, Jane Rogers and Diran Adebayo, published by Picador on October 17 at