Glyn Maxwell

As blank as scripture to a ruling class Discussed in hells they do not think exist, Cracked and abandoned to the slicing grass       And disabusing dust, A movie screen shows nothing in a morning mist.

Here’s where the happy endings were never had, Or, like the long and lonely, never shown. No one rode to the rescue of who was good,...

Doors on them now, the automobiles, the black

Grandiose, or red, gold-lined Elegances: flashing along through London, Oxford, the blossoms and lanes.

They stop at the wayside pubs and enthusiasts Boast, munch, wipe, compare. This is the lunchtime that takes forever, Our dads somewhere there.

Then oils and alloys come, so do Enforced windows and speeds, old names Now for the humming and...

Far be it from me to mention things that really happen

but I did go to this fish farm once and did discover this:

that despite the long cold pools of fish outdoors and the bubbling tanks

indoors, and the rocks they sell (one pound fifty for a real rock),

and the age-sloughing smell of green spawnwater and the wavering ferns,

and well, the fishes themselves – not every mother’s son...

Father will be pompous but a good soul, Mother will have her pan and grey hair and get him out of scrapes. No he wasn’t touching up that girl, IT WAS REALLY a case of crossed wires! No he wasn’t good at cooking but he did try hard.

It will last half-an-hour on empty nights. For the rest, two white heads on parapets. Mother will have her pan. A son and daughter will know what we...