The worst of a bath is clambering out
With an angered lurch and a tangled shout
As a telephone rings,
Or the kettle sings;
Or the garbled shrieks from the apple tree,
As another child clutches a broken knee,
Cause a puddled slur on the hollow flags
As you huddle along through immodest rags
On the trail of calamity under the sun;
To find there is nothing at all to be done
But to dribble back up to the cold-sullied water
And try to find peace with your breath coming shorter,
Your temper much thicker -
Good God, there’s the vicar.
(September,
1972)
