Sheriffhall.

to Geoffrey Hill

 What fields became: you, sneck-blasted cover-boy
 for New Age prospects; some raspberries, wormy both to touch &
taste;
a lone horse cropping grass from gorse. I can't
rework a photograph the mind pawns, forwards past this powder keg
of Pentland storms. Railpath, not much used
because it terminates here, at the bypass, a traffic roundabout. Rotary,
we call them back at home where they are rare & vaguely Communist.
They rely on man's goodwill to man. Surely this amuses you, in
Boston
's one-way purgatory of cod & sleet. Hogweed, white
dead-nettle,
runoff plugged with waste or worse; rank betony.
Love amerces love, & all proper cares of love's inflection.
Earth remands:
some walls of rubble-stone. A different resurrection.