Keaneing

A winter's morning. A sky like a dirty old slate.

Trees untidy, lead-coloured brushes against it.

The air full of snow and rain 

and the hour full of the absurd necessity of going out hunting.

At such a moment there is one thing impossible 

and that is to see a summer's day.

White flowers in the evening seem the only terms 

in which it can become remotely visible.

Say stephanotis in darkness.

from The Rising Tide by Molly Keane.

Embroidered table cloth from my grandma;

from the archives.

(The Manual and I are locked in mortal combat.)


Keening -
  a form of vocal lament associated with mourning
that is traditional in Scotland and Ireland.