Bhopal

A bluetit flashes to a twig.
It's raining; there's plenty
of bluetits in God's green country,
you could drink the rain
and the quinces are yellow,
yellow, my favourite colour.

In every word like yellow there lives a space
that nature's imagination fills with a thousand others;
this space is where we stand or fall.
The wars that are big and the wars that are small
are really the same imperative:
cash, that keeps our death abroad.

But Breughel's hellish torches scorch us everywhere,
and the searing gap between each one of us
is once what God but now international finance rushes to fill.
Our horror is not to be found as hell elsewhere
but methyl isocyanate seeping up through the skin of the world.

Good clean water from 60 feet below reliable clay and granite:
this is what we've got in Wales, thank God.
“For us it is not an important failure”:
one by one we carry on towards some place we think we've got to get                                                 to.