Little subjective veils of cloud
(Like the first lowering of lashes
In the first subconscious pull of sleep
Or like dying adieus to love)
Passing high wide blue windows.
The textures shift between the curtains, and
Columns of brick mosaic, mossy.
…….
Six-fifteen.
Several people and I sit in the college refectory.
They eating, I drinking coffee and smoking.
When they come in they look at me,
And when they sit down they shoot queere corner glances.
I am glad that they look at me.
They see the strange experience inside me,
Sitting with pencil and pad,
They see the face, almost empty,
But not my subterranean love and hate.
And now a myth unfolds itself
Within thee walls that I remember not:
Tables and chairs are where we dance
And where we sat, no gone, partitioned off.
The only rhythms left are cutlery and kitchen hiss,
The murmur of talk makes a poor melody
Lost inside the labyrinth of my eqar.
The sun carves in happy ancient tones
A waitress whitened from the fluted screen.
Then the cigarette ash is wiped from before me,
My bits of thoughts are swept away.
…….
Now only
The struggling sun on the dusty window, sizzling yellow,
Erasing the landscape like an old print,
Old dried up love, and the beech tree all tatty metal.
…….
1961
Mary Argent coppyright