Livings

I

I deal with farmers, things like dips and feed. / Every third month I book myself in at / The — Hotel in —ton for three days. / The boots carries my lean old leather case / Up to a single, where I hang my hat. / One beer, and then ‘the dinner’, at which I read / The —shire Times from soup to stewed pears. / Births, deaths. For sale. Police court. Motor spares. // Afterwards, whisky in the Smoke Room: Clough, / Margetts, the Captain, Dr. Watterson; / Who makes ends meet, who’s taking the knock, / Government tariffs, wages, price of stock. / Smoke hangs under the light. The pictures on / The walls are comic — hunting, the trenches, stuff / Nobody minds or notices. A sound / Of dominoes from the Bar. I stand a round. // Later, the square is empty: a big sky / Drains down the estuary like the bed / Of a gold river, and the Customs House / Still has its office lit. I drowse / Between ex-Army sheets, wondering why / I think it’s worth while coming. Father’s dead: / He used to, but the business now is mine. / It’s time for change, in nineteen twenty-nine.

II

Seventy feet down / The sea explodes upwards, / Relapsing, to slaver / Off landing-stage steps — / Running suds, rejoice! // Rocks writhe back to sight. / Mussels, limpets, / Husband their tenacity / In the freezing slither — / Creatures, I cherish you! // By day, sky builds / Grape-dark over the salt / Unsown stirring fields. / Radio rubs its legs, / Telling me of elsewhere: // Barometers falling, / Ports wind-shuttered, / Fleets pent like hounds, / Fires in humped inns / Kippering sea-pictures — // Keep it all off! / By night, snow swerves / (O loose moth world) / Through the stare travelling / Leather-black waters. // Guarded by brilliance / I set plate and spoon, / And after, divining-cards. / Lit shelved liners / Grope like mad worlds westward.

III

Tonight we dine without the Master / (Nocturnal vapours do not please); / The port goes round so much the faster, / Topics are raised with no less ease — / Which advowson looks the fairest, / What the wood from Snape will fetch, / Names for pudendum mulieris, / Why is Judas like Jack Ketch? // The candleflames grow thin, then broaden: / Our butler Starveling piles the logs / And sets behind the screen a jordan / (Quicker than going to the bogs). / The wine heats temper and complexion: / Oath-enforced assertions fly / On rheumy fevers, resurrection, / Regicide and rabbit pie. // The fields around are cold and muddy, / The cobbled streets close by are still, / A sizar shivers at his study, / The kitchen cat has made a kill; / The bells discuss the hour’s gradations, / Dusty shelves hold prayers and proofs: / Above, Chaldean constellations / Sparkle over crowded roofs.