28th October 1998
I thought of Ted Hughes
In the twilight
On the disused railway
Crows dropping without opening their wings
From naked branch to branch
Afflicted by the wind
I was unmoved
His life is made of stronger stuff than mine
And of that iron cloth he makes the world
I know he makes the world in Devon now
Forging with aching arms and working hands
He spits on soil and ploughs it with his thumbs
The clay face struggles but is blind and trapped
And this raw pearly sky and ebbing day
Is blank to me
It moves me not
I know what that makes me
And I made this
This empty day and dull unravelling
We must be torn
Or we must tear ourselves
Dripping from the substrate
Gasping for breath
'Wake Up'
Slap your clay face
'You have been in an accident'
Open your eyes: the accident is all around you
Setting the trees at angles
In a wreckage of leaves and stalks
Old willow-herb and shrivelled blackberries
The disaster of billions of years
And the space between the stars
From which you drag yourself
Now clay face talk and live
This world is your job now
One day the poet's brain will cease and yours go on
Blood filling and refilling it, to make afresh
The only world that is, inside itself
But his world will be over.
Who then will be your master?
Late autumn, be for me the whole dark year
Cold wind blow through us all, for all our lives
For he was one who notices such things
Ten years have passed
Of shocks and accidents and man's disgrace
I remember that day
(The date I checked on wikipedia)
Because I was so cold
And went back to the car, thinking these thoughts
And on the BBC, the reader said
The Poet Laureate Ted Hughes today is dead.
