cold nights on the farm， a sock-shod

    stove-warmed flatiron slid under

    the covers， mornings a damascene

    sealed bizarrerie of fernwork decades ago now

    waking in northwest London， tea

    brought up steaming， a Peak Frean

    biscuit alongside to be nibbled

    as blue gas leaps up singing decades ago now

    damp sheets in Dorset， fog-hung

    habitat of bronchitis， of long

    hot soaks in the bathtub， of nothing

    quite drying out till next summer：

    delicious to think of

    hassocks pulled in close， toasting

    forks held to coal-glow， strong-minded

    small boys and big eager sheepdogs

    muscling in on bookish profundities now quite forgotten

    the farmhouse long sold， old friends

    dead or lost track of， what's salvaged

    is this vivid diminuendo， unfogged

    by mere affect， the perishing residue of pure sensation