|A few words from old postcards
It's dark at 4.30pm. That's your
London cum continent trip in 1996.
I raise a glass to you. Paris, outdoors.
The latest kind of snow-resisting lamps.
Just come from evensong in the Abbey.
(Bath). You were descending through
the layers of tourism to antiquarian books and textiles.
If this sounds choleric I have a raging 'flu.
The British Library is efficient but not beautiful.
Your red scarf wraps your shoulders like a cloak.
Anxiety is simply us trying to control events
from a distance. Head bowed, I see you writing it.