China and Daffodils, calm yellow faces,
Hush-gentle ladies in hush-gentle places,
A thimble of coffee, a seat by the vicar,
The ebb-tide of living winds out; and no flicker
Of guilt or of hunger has frost-burnt their being
Cocooned in the silk-slipping web of their seeing.
Slow-stepping graciousness, mutual fealty
Brittle but eye-bright, careful in frailty.
Pale old eyes dreaming a moon-rippled breeze -
“Oh, Sylvie, remember when Housman wrote these?”
The dry cheeks now fretted by foot-notes of care
Have been washed by young tears and caressed by young hair.
The lamps softly shaded, blurred shadows lie down
Over pages of poetry, foreheads that frown.
The word-rhythms press on their senses, grow wild
And the heart of each lady is once more a child...
Forsythia branches in porcelain jar
Thrust break-aching beauty in each quiet star;
Before the Sèvres mirrors so costly, so bleak,
The deep-lenten trumpets though muted yet speak
Of the silence that sleeps at the heart of the world,
Of the beauty unguessed at, deep-hidden, close furled.
The poetry circle shakes back to its mode
And a spider’s mist filigree creeps on the Spode.
(March, 1971)
