Maybe advice you sent, three pairs of socks
and a stick of suncream you just cashed up
earned you the money for this stake of freedom.

Our desire is such we breathe
the smoke of dragons, we chase their tails
up the motorway and keep one, snorting
under our own roof. And these are our roofs,
that tilt of slate, crimped chimney, burly black gutter -
they are as painful from a distance as the smell
of milk. Catch a glimpse when you're
away in Strasbourg or California, or
on a faded postcard in a Scunthorpe junk shop
- no matter, your mouth will
fill with desire for those furious
flower-packed roundabouts pulling all of us to themselves,
even now, when barely two or three remain