For a change, this is a poem not written by me. It is a short one by Raymond Carver (1938-88).

And did you get what
You wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

The river, pushed by the tide,
smudges the edges here, 
pulls back to leave a footpath in the sand
quickly printed, away 
from the electric fence

The magic goes:
swordsmen emerge from the mist
and the church hovers in the distance
always just out of reach

On a tiny island, unmarked on any maps,
a thousand birds
try to leave their nests
but fall back, fading into silence

This is the way back:
our legs ache and
there is nowhere to rest:
no random logs, no majesty
just a shorn green empty field 

on which to collapse
beneath the skeleton trees
unable to rise again
until the third day,

which is too long:
the water is alive
and coming towards us

Her cage empty
the parrot has flown away,
grey in the sun,
prizing freedom above security
risk above lockdowns

She leaves Chwilog behind
disdains the narrow lanes and
crosses forbidden fields
dodging the farmer’s guns

Heading for Pwllheli,
she has booked in
for a holiday at Hafan y Mor,
not knowing the game is over

Posters appear
offering a reward for her recapture:
she has nothing to say –
not on this occasion

Reception is closed,
and as the nights creep in
the silence becomes deeper:
the door is open,
but too far away

under the green cliff
where the red house hunkers down
old sand is silent

we take off our masks
reveal our smiling faces
surprising the ghosts

on the narrow path
a man with a blue suitcase
leaves his bed behind

the hill fort stands high
as history disappears 
shapeless stones tell lies

Pale waves nibble at grass and sand,
tired riders complaining
of years in the saddle
as water-coloured land licks into the ocean

and there is no edge,
no border
just a man singing
into an angry crowd
while the band leaves the stage

Footprints are blurred, then slide away,
and who is to decide
where he stood? Too late now to say
which is land and which sea:
even the moon hesitates

The tree of knowledge
is drowned or buried:
the tree of life
simply forgotten

Grains of sand turn into cliffs of clay,
not gold: a cold wind
from the north brings
careless rain,
flotsam and jetsam
flooding the failing fields

and if the singer digs a shallow grave
he will surely drown
despite the distant hill
and the whisper
he is trying to unearth

Beyond the masks and the skull
outside the walled garden
through red and yellow
toward sky space

you walk across endless green
and into blue:
the ancient hall lurks in the background
behind distorting mirrors

You do not age at all:
you are as I first saw you
falling in love with the future
praying unprincipled prayers

You bring me back
to the fountain of fire
time and again
your words as silent as ever

It’s too late now:
I can’t get him back,
reach out my royal arm,
keep him from harm

stop the Land Rover,
order a rethink

There is no-one beside me
– no nudge, no wink –
just practitioners of sorrow 
out front, too visible, 
no tomorrow

I wear a mask and sit alone:
no laughter in the night
no rolling stone

Was there something I should have done?
Escaped to Greece or Denmark,
Corfu in the sun
or rain?

Dug deep, started again?

No, it’s too late now:
black suits, black wheels,
no-one to tell me how he feels,
no witty, careless remark 

Just dark

the graveyard is closed
and ghosts walk down narrow paths
that lead to glory

the path through the marsh
leads me deeper and deeper
a sinking feeling

I have to turn back
pick my way along the path
already travelled

It was no secret what was happening… It was like killing rabbits… But people are not rabbits. Even after the war, when they could see that the survivors were not in fact rabbits but people, they still felt in their hearts that the dead ones had been rabbits. – Lionel Davidson, Making Good Again

Surrounded by poetry
pegged up prettily
to lure passers by

and in some cases translated
from the original pain
with killing pictures

the holocaust discussion group
faces eternal questions.

Did it? Do we have the right?
Could they? Can we? How long?
and 
Did people really think
they were rabbits?

There may be a more sinister explanation, but
it is too late to ask questions,
and too early:

we crouch helplessly round a serious table 
with personal pots of tea 
and strained faces.

Only the poetry makes sense,
and not many people read poetry
nowadays

Poetry repeats itself.
It has to:
nobody listens.

He watches as the shadowy ship on the horizon
beyond the blue-grey house
disappears into the Blakeney mist

sinks soundlessly into the distant pit
where there is no sun,
and is consumed by your tears

Just another waterfall
in the story told
between your sheets

as if all waterfalls were not miracles
and all ships do not continue to exist
beyond your fears

He waits for the horizon to reimagine itself
in uncreated light
sees figures walk on what had seemed to be water

and you out there like a sunset
unique, shimmering,
riding the waves

while wild barley lines the inland verges
ripe but ungathered,
way beyond temptation