At Keswick
I remember, at Keswick,
The young crows were full of crow-spirit
Jaunty beak-jutting, eyes quick black jet
Swivelling, tending towards
Roofs, angled granite:
Slates blading back the silver light to sky
(The hills like faded bolts
Of close-folded green baize
In a draper’s sunny window)
All seem to be with us today
Even those who have outlived their bone-house,
Even those who have gone into the world of light,
Forever in the sun shimmer,
In the spider-spun web-strands
Strewing the municipal bushes,
Wind-moved and always:
While the dog basked in the car-seat sunshine
We both snoozed, absorbing an infinite moment away,
Waiting for you to finish shopping.
That summer before the War.