Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone