This sea like shot-silk, every day such light
gilding my window-frames. I drowse, afloat
in summer; and some sound I have always known,
say that lawnmower's gritty whirring, makes believe
there are continuities woven through the years.
Even that mad-looking spiky hasp of a thing
that palpitates on my pane, I have known before,

fastening to me one childhood evening when
I sifted through my coin-collection, francs,
marks, annas, coins with squiggles, blackening
silver threepennies, and the massy copper
George III penny, perhaps then the last time
dropping back in the soft bag, me not realising.
So many things put by for the last time!

Or lost. All that was meant. As when, sun gilding
our handlebars I cycled out with Pam
...