if i sat every afternoon for two years
in the same corner where you sat,
i could not draw down such shapes
as regularly visit you from the dark and turbulent air

like the kettle of questions
on the boil behind my breastbone
she wants me alive

if i served her up with answers
in a twist of last week’s newspaper
she would baulk

she would drag me back
through the dying trees
to the place where many had been felled

and then say to me, gently,
now will you begin again?
i cannot answer

i am antimony
i prefer the safety of a lead-lined sitting room
and a fuse forever unlit

if questioned
i will always bring forth a good defence
sometimes employing the device of watercress,
lettuce and cucumber

but most often i will whistle
that same tune i always did
when i lived in the borough of my heart

before anyone accused me of imagination