Closed like confessionals, they thread Loud noons of cities, giving back None of the glances they absorb. Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque, They come to rest at any kerb: All streets in time are visited. Then children strewn on steps or road, Or women coming from the shops Past...

On the day of the explosionShadows pointed towards the pithead:In the sun the slagheap slept. Down the lane came men in pitbootsCoughing oath-edged talk and pipe-smoke,Shouldering off the freshened silence. One chased after rabbits; lost them;Came back with a nest of lark's...

Groping back to bed after a piss I part thick curtains, and am startled by  The rapid clouds, the moon’s cleanliness. Four o’clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie  Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.  There’s something laughable about this, The way the...

Aubade BY PHILIP LARKIN I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.    Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.    In time the curtain-edges will grow light.    Till then I see what’s really always there:    Unresting...