Men have come to fix the pebbledash,
fifty years of it, cracked and letting in the rain.
It needed doing, but it’s so noisy
and the scaffolding blocks the path.

In the damp May evening I tiptoe
to the foot of the ladder, up the poles
and onto the roof, the chimney, leap
my giant’s leap across mills and fields,
mount the TV mast (all 900 feet of it),
grasp at a passing plane, swing
over and out to the moon, the stars,
till I’m sighted by a schoolboy
at his bedroom window with a telescope,
top of the universe and climbing.

in Listening to Dancing