The rusty stain on the pillow, the rumble of pain in his knee, impromptus of a dream in which he hacked his way out again and again, the dawn fading up from the green-blue-green of the silver birch, a flourish on the surface of the pond, a ragged skein of bindweed on the stone-cold statuette of that thin-lipped girl from the dream, the odds-on bet that nothing returns or renews, that the stain is just what it seems, that the sudden catch in the throat, the moment of blind regret, will be all in all, that his way through the garden wet will take him, for sure, out by the willow-arch on a morning much like this, and into the lane beyond which must lie the far field, beyond which a nameless road, beyond which a landline drawn in clumsy charcoal below a clumsy sketch of himself as pseudocide, a frantic silhouette soon smudged to shadow by incoming rain.
David Harsent has published nine collections of poetry, including Marriage (2002), Legion (2005), and Selected Poems, 1969–2005 (2007). His collaborations with Harrison Birtwistle have been performed at venues that include the Royal Opera House and Carnegie Hall.