November
For M.V.

1

Once, I remember, you took me
To what had been her garden:
Door through the wall, rusted trellis, from which
Into the shade of an empty cistern,
The conduit under fallen broom,
Small grapes hung. A fig tree too
With leather leaves and bursting tasteless fruit.
But beyond, an open field in strips
That rushed headlong to hedges,
And the sky.


2

A country with two sorts of oak,
White and green. In spring, their wood
Being startled by rising sap, they both
Unfold new foliage into the light.
But in autumn one begins to pale,
Takes off its green and stands dry-leaved:
...