After Roland Penrose, 1937
Those I have loved, the three;

how they preen. Green eyed, finch-flecked

first kisser. Cheek skimmed,

I kicked the sleepers home that night

mam called to warn of trains

and the Yorkshire Ripper.

Long since the wheel spun its last,

three years past eighty-four.
Kingfisher lover, how you adored my shadows,

(the pit pond a lure for your Southern sights)

dove, turned the air blue with talk,

what you wouldn’t do

weren’t worth knowing abart. Nah then
there’s you, common starling, playing coy,

looking back in a what you’re missing glance,

keen a glint on every feather. I, less

English rose than bramble, briar hair picked

of fruit. When I open my mouth I lose

my words in a flurry, I flub, I foozle;

my tongue a practice struggling scales.