Not precisely, like a pylon or
A pop-up toaster, but in a general
Way, stuck in the mud.
Not budding out of it like gipsies,
Laundry lashed to a signpost, dieting on
Nettles and hedgehogs,
Not lodged in its layers like badgers,
Tuned to the runes of its home-made walls, wearing
Its shape like a skin,
Not even securely rooted, like
Tribesmen tied to the same allotment, sure of
The local buses,
But earthed for all that, in the chalky
Kent mud, thin sharp ridges between wheel-tracks, in
Surrey's wild gravel,
In serious Cotswold uplands, where
Limestone confines the verges like yellow teeth,
And trees look sideways.
Everything from the clouds downwards holds
Me in its web, like the local newspapers,
Or Somerset belfries, so highly
Parochial that Gloucestershire has none, or
Conscientiously practising the
Phrases Browning liked, the attitude Hughes noticed,
Where the cashiers' rudeness is native
To the district, though the bread's not, or gardens,
Loved more than children,
Bright with resourcefulness and smelling
Of rain. This narrow island charged with echoes
And whispers snares me.
from Collected Poems 1978-2003 (Peterloo Poets, 2005), copyright © U A Fanthorpe 2005, used by permission of the author and the publisher.