sorry poem

one by one, like leaves from a tree
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
my soul is a dark ploughed field
the pale day drowses on the western steep
when i was a boy at college
beneath my window in a city street
when i was broke in london
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
my mother taught me that every night
beside a stricken field
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
stir
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me