(in memoriam Bernard Spencer, 1909-1963)
The fine rot of fig and orange
sweetens the alley mouth as we pass through.
The laughter of the girl at the window
hurtles from above us on a treble arrow
and breeze-drawn to where the sea’s an actual blue,
sweetens also, though her perfume can’t expunge
the delicate offensive scent of fruit
pooling purple and gold where it lies
sun-striped in the alley. Above us and behind
the girl bundles in a third-story line
of laundry, hair so wild it hides
her soul, shades her eyes from the brute
sun, delays for an hour or day
our arrival at the small white bar
of wayward love, addicted past duty.
Wisdom makes room for Circe as a pig-ignorant beauty,
ironing blue sheets to lay the evening star.
Turn back now and beg her: let us stay.