All Blacks in the Same Hotel   They hang together in this nest of chairs, they barely answer   in the lift, on stairs. Could be my accent— must be the most suspect,   closest, known to all; am I offering shares? They slope off to practice,   Thames-ward daily, behind worn blue palings, remote nation, defined   by sea and play, both vast, by thigh-slap, gruff wailings, and they’ll leave here last. Les Murray