For Matthew Frere-Smith
Boarding Greathead, London-bound
with Percival, from Cape Town,
for Matthew in Walsham; Wormley
tonight for an unveiling. We’ll be inbound
by Light Railway after docking
in Folkestone, Dover to chalk our pockets, then
Dungeness for Jarmen’s garden, cold tea
and windburn– all justified by the Maltese
fisherman’s kipper June savours.
By Oakwood you phone us with no news but
Enfield, The Hop Poles. You were a success,
to be installed in Earlham; the newspaper
lately published a grainy still of your Standing Woman
surrounded by the council estate bulldozed,
enfensed: yours was all that stood.
In the air I watch contrails match your lattices:
Maquette, Tenso, Cage. Destinations invisibly
riveted in rigid suspension, equilibrated.
I lap you with travel (next week is Willemstad and
Dutch Antilleans), but my flight plans match
Brownian motion before your calculable works.
Hearing our rubber stick with every landing, I begin
to understand more of your stabile mobiles, of
the longevity of balancing motion.