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The Lake District
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From the banister I can see you, Cough and blast rainbows 27 summers press against the powder room windows On returning eyes are learning the language of your wrists You twist them towards the chandeliers and say 'who will be my witness?' On a beaded rug on Jerusalem Hill watching the trawlers roll in Let's start at the beginning, the drunk shouts who your tailor on the preference Of a power failure slashing out its darkness The steeple riggers round the spire scramble For holy work lights on great hooks hanging You straighten your quiff and mimic a stiff The jury's back and it's a crushing blow To those who wish you ill and woe You are the Lake District You don't need to speak Writes in the air and chalk Like sub titles walk across a foreign film screen From the landing I can hear your hay bale laughter singing It breaks the white horse hearts, of all those assembling To be an ornament that sparkles


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