Who I think I met in a pub in Norwich in the 1970s. He encouraged me to write poetry – above all, not to feel intimidated by those poets we admire, but to feel fellowship in the same struggle for words.
Mr Murray’s Words.
Riding on the central lowlands railway to the east
From the Soccerland end of the bar-bell line to make Haymarket
In past an earlier Murray’s field: this car today is full of
Ring-pulls of Tennants and Red Stripes who have
Brought along with them students and first year workers like
This couple: her next to me and him across from her, still
Linked by the spent cartridges of their last night’s
Hormones and the complicit sparkle of their day out after
I settle in some way similarly with my companion, who I swear
Forty years ago I met once in a pub backroom
In one his medieval knots of roundabouts
By the cathedral of the concrete university city
His are some parched towns and the flooded outback in
The Vernacular Republic; I long to be at that place
But am now fixed, a bluebottle butting inside this carriage
Intersection, an occluded Venn diagram of muscular young hope
Clipped across the sunshine cloud world, on a grenade splashed path
With a cut-out heron, an Asian family picnic on a racing green park,
Random gazing toy cattle, a gable end with its eyes put out,
Slops of spiny broom baby sick on a hill’s old shoulders,
Each harpooned between Bathgate-Livingston North-Uphall
In shattering relief while Mr Murray’s words keep coming
One after another straight and without fail like every polished rail
On the return journey home from Perth to New South Wales.