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Spectare Herculeans
His head turned and swivelled to the neighbourhood of close
stars. With his hands in gaberdine pockets he whistled.
Against the soft skinned, artificial cloth. Towards vast
characterless squares: his future’s intersections. As his
stride lengthened the sun weakened. A woman called out
across the acres of night. His face swelled like a moon
in close-up, and, smiling at me, read into fact, into calm
matter-of-fact: ‘I , too, am a poet.’
Of hands, leathery, raw. Of jutting jaw. Of the sure
step of ownership, the firm certainty of law.
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