…treat jostled treat: a wedding one day,
a memorial service the next… from casual
pretension to pretended casualness…
hired morning suits, fascinators… chinos,
backpacks… he was a great man… they’re such a
suited couple… he instantly recognised
my genius… they’ve lived together for years…
in a modest Georgian country house in Wales –
transformed to a wedding venue with bought-in
statuary… in a Camden Town pub
with asparagus risotto and rosé…
we celebrated something – money, luck,
aspiration, achievement? Someone died,
someone married, we were invited.
Nothing of joy occurred, nothing solemn.

Truly and beyond mockery, the sun shone
on the lawns and the distant, lovat hills –
and a gusting north wind threw the city’s dirt
against the etched windows.




, , , , , , ,

  1. #1 by John Huddart - February 25th, 2015 at 21:45

    Gorgeous poem – that detail, part affection, part satire – Larkin would be proud to be there! And a truly memorable final quartet.

(will not be published)

  1. No trackbacks yet.