too young to know she’s young
heavying on my porcelain arm,
she laughed in her sleep
and me, rotten through with self-righteousness,
milking life for all I can:
I dreamt, and dream and lie awake again.
Musing on anniversaries
and trees – the only Elm in the parish
or the given fig, seeds sown and grown
he takes his tea
and those who can, remember jokes
and onion soup and dignity,
Old Spice and hedgehogs finding milk
