One thing about hangmen's beautiful daughters
Is that they're all fearless so when God
Flings open the door and shouts "Yah!" at her
She just nods and holds up a basin
That had been at the bottom of a cupboard
Until she'd rummaged it out (I really
Should write something for her so she'll
Stop hanging about, getting into everything)
The basin is silver chased with enamel
Of the precise green robins' eggs would be
If they weren't blue. It's filled -- it always is --
With cold water. We stole it from someone's poem
In 1981; God made a disturbance while I
Slipped it into my coat. (I miss that coat;
Its pockets could hold anything.) I thought
I'd be able to use it myself some day but it
Is too solid and too vain, insisting
That any poem it's in be really about
A heavy silver basin, chased with green,
Filled always with cold water
No comments:
Post a Comment