If I go I will miss
the coppiced stumps on lonely aits
at river’s foggy dawn.
I’ll miss the pen-scrawled lace of Hammersmith bridge
and the way, when meeting friends on the towpath,
I’m introduced as Suzanne, for no apparent reason.
But I’ve grown half-alien to kith and kin.
Sentences once upon a time translated
appear commonly in my mouth:
You’ll find a tin of mushy peas in the cupboard.
Crikey, it’s not half painful, it’s not.