Poem: ‘Noises Off’
Hubert Moore, 4 July 1985
A fraction of sky falling in, miles over my head. Unless it’s coal in the stove downstairs inching closer over the fire of itself, settling down to be burnt.
It’s guns waking me up: deep in the woods, minutely thundering off at pigeons or rabbits. Eight hours, ten hours, it must be, perhaps twenty conscious thoughts,
since last night on TV some expert said they could now make...