Sometimes You Are Aware When

I'd Given Up Everything To Be A Writer, And If I Didn't Then Go On To Do That - To Write - Then I Didn't Know What Would Happen To Me.

Sometimes You Are Aware When Your Great Moments Are Happening, And Sometimes They Rise From The Past. Perhaps It's The Same With People.

The Summer Has Ended. The Garden Withers. The Mornings Become Chill. I Am Thirty, I Am Thirty-four -the Years Turn Dry As Leaves.

Being Somebody: It's One Of The Ideas In Life, No? That's What My Father Made Clear To Me. The Importance Of Being Somebody. He Wanted To Be Somebody. And He Underlined To Me The Fate Of Trying To Be Somebody And Not Quite Managing To Do It.

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.