Willy's room fills with light from the bow-window.
His brown chairs are soft and bulky,
like gazelle feet.. the plinth of the pink day-bed
keeps still for Susan's cardigan's asleep
under a blade of our huge aspidistra.. 'salright Willy,
this light.. you've a French striped tie
as you come to the world after sickness,
that fades in the day-room, a hidden and confused drowning
down in the kelp, like a baby's pale roll..
The winching tower-crane begins, distant, in autumn,
(window's open) pulling
sudden shifts of cloud on an east coast,
the line hissing off Willy's reel again, the water's fast
blue and white.. his shoulders warm and hair dries