Lee Harwood

Mid-afternoon   a light breeze sways the worn blue curtain.

Could this be Alexandria? – I think not – but some provincial city? seaport? And the year?

In a cluttered office, dust on the ledges, the books in perfect order, the accounts all up to date, the correspondence answered and filed.

Evening dreams   stories of emperors and patriarchs,...

for my uncle, Alfred Miles1909-87

‘they created a desert, and they call it peace’* and that could have been said of Carthage, though it wasn’t. It was much closer to home. Scattered blocks of stone, and dust, the stumps of houses. And now left with men who lie, no matter what, for little reason, vanity or fear, but who lie, amid smiling cruelty.

‘Now how will the...

for Kelvin Corcoran

Just off the main square at the entrance to a crowded narrow street – this is in Bologna, 1992 – a man stood erect, hands behind his back, watching something, or just waiting.

A man about 60 or 70, wearing a cloth cap, an old suit jacket, a worn but neatly ironed shirt, neatly buttoned. No tie. An afternoon in winter.

Don’t know why. This moment that...