I’m having trouble filling up the time these days.
The hundred things I did to keep me at it, going, on,
Don’t do it for me anymore, they’ve gone.
 
Work, always solitary, is someone else’s problem now.
I don’t much care for maths and English skills
and how to reach those working wretches that don’t have them,
unfulfilled, as they may or may not be,
beavering away so unproductively.
 
And in my spare time,
Which is all and every other minute of the day and night,
I can’t be bothered spreading muck or planting trees,
Or starting once again on Ulysses.
 
Seville oranges are hanging in the garage, in a plastic bag
I took them out and weighed them all and put them back.
It is such a fag, the preparation and the process.
 
Once, I couldn’t wait to make the stuff and taste it,
pass it on in big jars to everyone I knew,
who loved it dolloped on their toast,
In great big wobbling blobs.
Today I stood inside the shower,
and as every day,
scraped the razor down my face, between the sobs.
 
Last year, Andy and I spent two days juicing,
Talking, slicing, steeping and reducing.
He went home on the train,
His holdall clinking with the best stuff yet.
Next year, we said, we will make twice as much.
This marmalade was so good, it warmed you looking through.
The burnt orange, suspended flecks of peel.