Urbino, Italy

The grandeur of the palace re-awakened
all the old anger at outrageous riches
derived at base from peasant poverty.

The same few biblical events all taken
uncritically on walls and shadowed niches
in gloomy paintings brainwashed laity.

And so the visit kept my thanks unshaken
for our democracy, despite its glitches,
more intent on gaiety than deity.

When I was young, my parents embarrassed me;
now older I cringe at the younger self I see.

Welcome to Guyana

We crossed the border from Boa Vista and started to follow the orange dirt road. The skinny savannah of Brazil began to put on weight as fleshy forest padded the far horizon. The narrow road soon needle pointed through walls of wood - the palmless, pineless lush green leafery patrolled by black clad vigilant vultures. Kilometres of whorled and rutted track eventually stretched the view to distance of marsh. Canals and roadside pools erupted water birds - egrets, herons, occasional jabiru storks. King vultures posed for our tourist cameras. Then forest ruled again. The single lane track became furrowed, freshly ploughed by lorries, until on a rare smooth straight our truck slowed down as a distant object across our way lazily stirred itself, stretched and casually strolled off into the jungle - jaguar.

"It's a hard habit to break" she said "I know"
I assumed she was thinking of her husband
lately deceased but reputed a miser.
Having mentioned I'd reached that stage of life
when inheritance tax becomes a concern,
her comment did make me a little bit wiser -
I've only got funds from the little I've earned
because all my life I've been economical
but I'm finding she's right - a hard habit to break,
just like her husband, too true to be comical.
I seem to be expert at saving my money
with little idea of just how to spend it.
It's certainly crazy but not really funny:
I'm no fan of fashion or fancy restaurants;
I don't care for cars or technology;
won't go for gimmicks or special offers
or fall for some salesman's kidology.
So will all my money stay locked in my coffers?
Well, what I do like doesn't cost very much:
the garden and council allotment I tend
(and because I eat all of the crops that I grow,
I actually save a lot more than I spend);
drinking sweet cider and dancing to pop tunes
(but only in places with no entry charge !);
an occasional quiz, some sport on TV;
self-delusion of fitness by courtesy
of the weights and equipment in my local gym
(the annual membership one luxury).
I could spend my money on more foreign travel
but there's not many places I still want to visit.
I'd like to spend money on dining young women
but they don't want to know me as being decrepit.
So perhaps I give up and just take the advice
of some favourite poets - Belloc and Byron,
accepting I'm stuck with the 'gentlemanly vice' -
involuntary avarice.

A week or so ago I dug some may bugs

from a big flowerpot in my back garden.

Coiled they were, like short fat juicy caterpillars.

I put them out on the lawn as food for whatever

and noticed a magpie several times fill its beak

and fly off presumably to feed its young.

A few days later I dug up several more

and again put them out as food for whoever.

And again a magpie took full advantage.

Lately I haven't found any more but now

repeatedly I see a magpie patrolling my lawn.

It walks a few slow steps then stops to inspect

a patch of grass or probe it with its beak.

Nothing. A few more steps. Another inspection.

Nothing. Sometimes it seems to stare at me

through the French doors and I can almost feel

its disappointment, frustration, annoyance, anger.

Do you know anywhere I can buy may bugs?

Flying to Karawari, Papua New Guinea

We board our silver winged flier - more bird than butterfly (except in turbulence) and slide across the farmers' fields and feathery copses lightly sprinkled with sequined houses. Then valleys deepen and wooded hillsides steepen into mountains. An orange road wriggles along the crests of ridges. The land becomes a huge green corrugated cake with cumulus topping. Gradually it levels to a tufted carpet of endless forest. At last the flat brown coffee of the river, the cricket pitch landing and the woven palm leaves terminal.

Driving to Brighton, England

The airport was busy, half a dozen passenger jets criss-crossing the sky, sectioning the flimsy grey garden fleece covering the background blue with precisely ruled white lines thickening and wobbling as they aged. A few frayed tufts hinted at high breeze. Into the rural, we sped across flat farmland starting to sprout new housing estates. At the Downs we had to dawdle up the Beacon hill, cursing the weekend cyclists, then feeling guilty for our vehicle lazy irritation. At the top at last, two panoramic views vied for our attention : behind us, the tree carpeted level stretched east to west fringed by the distant northern hills; ahead the buxom grassy downs lolloped on towards the far sea brighter than the obscured sun gazing downcast behind its veil. Descending more, the city met us with busy streets between the crowded houses. And finally the pier. And the problem of parking.