Him Indoors

 

No life other than him.

Slipped-aside eyes,

nose peaked, slit mouth,

a mite of jowl wobble

keeping it simple,

the fussed economy

before dissolution.

And those clothes. Fur,

broadcloth up to the chin,

cocky codpiece unflaunted,

though the ring is bling,

the book bedizened - minor

shows below that lit face

in sunshine time.

And it shone. Brewer’s

get from Putney sticks

slid King’s-side, mercenary,

merchant, law, all passed,

dodging a death or two,

money-man mouth-clever

as slippage upward went.

But the shine’s from out

on the dim of the in,

him of the Jewel House

to gathering abbeys,

quick to execute

while robed dark

downwards.
 

What Wears Out

 

Eruptions batter the skies,

Vulcan under Etna spewing

fire. Smoke’s on the rise,

the midges flutter down.

The setting needs to be right:

busy, inattentive,

the careless gloss so slight

a deft midge would miss it.

The flare is out by morning,

but roads are grim with ash.

A cooler bright is dawning

though no midge flies today.

Blow

 

Blow out the sun,

pack the sky in mothballs.

Fold up the clouds,

crease the sea in armfuls.

Wring out the valleys,

strip the hills of padding.

Grate up the trees,

stir the lake silt into pudding.

Lock up life

and throw away

the key as soon

as morning’s over.

Shut beyond

the bedroom door

on the staircase,

in the hall,

I can hear

our household

shadows

laughing

at his falling,

at his fading,

at my call.

 

After W. H. Auden’s "Stop All the Clocks"