Take us back then, the prices in shillings and pence, to
those previous titles, Fighting Terms, The Sense of Movement

and even now as the tabla plays out its water-in-a-barrel
contours, and a yacht pulls away from the harbour wall,

the sun ripples over the midday sea, and catches the edges
of the cumulo-cirrus. Take us back then, here in the carpeted

room as the drummer shimmers the ride cymbal, the bass
is plucked in steps, and next, a harp, ripples too, through

the close sequences, and the voice, adroit, double-tracked,
drifting into cadence, is pulled back in the mix to die away.