(in memoriam Vita Sackville-West, 1892-1962)
A small shadow in a great fog,
a moth on a fluted column
and snow, packed in glittering stages
as evening wears on dull and dumb.
The nursery is quiet, the rages
of the morning tantrum put off
till weekend’s end, the promised dog-
show in the city, the curling cough
of winterland crackling in pond and brook.
The goose is cooked and Cook
is loose upon the Madeira, the plums
stewed and combed to brillantine.
Contentment is fatigue brushed clean
of anger, wine and an unwrapped book
to tidy the soul, balance the sums.
Under snow the cable hums
and a telephone rings somewhere far
away, with a message from the airport bar
regarding fog’s thick embrace,
the runway and the wings gone blue
and no prospect of a passage through.
Goodnight then, and from a lonely place
a kiss to reserve a table for two.