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.

I stare at the garden and will myself to think
of strolling out there in sandals to sit on the swing seat,
(its canopy now sagging with snow),
to shelter from a blistering sun,
and worry a little about a hose pipe ban.
I cannot even picture the flowering tulips and alliums
which I know I have planted.
It isn't possible that this winter will ever end.

But every season is the same. Immutable.
I would not be able to see a winter's day
from my hammock under the apple tree.
Impossible to think of being inside 
with curtains drawn at 4 p.m.
 Molly Keane knew that too 
and that makes it seem more bearable.

The Rising Tide 1937