the mind fogeys the hand 'emembers 

the shep of the shovel or the grist in the fingers 

the invisible prick of the sewing needle 

wrists wrought under press

twist to and fro with the shuttle tremor

plenty-of-time plenty-of-time

echoing in the tinnitus of the ear holes

and in the spots the rot the sun leaves 

around the eyes goes leather with the squint.