Part 8 (1/2)

”See that the messenger takes some refreshment.

No, no answer.”

And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade.

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one.

I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.

In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern.

He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat.

He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing.

And I answered, ”It shall be as you have said.”

Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.

The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.

I shall go Up and down, In my gown.

Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.

And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each b.u.t.ton, hook, and lace.

For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war.

Christ! What are patterns for?

SPRING DAY

BATH

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.

The suns.h.i.+ne pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of suns.h.i.+ne lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.

The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whirl of tulips and narcissus in the air.

BREAKFAST TABLE

In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl--and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels p.r.i.c.k them like darts. Placid and peaceful the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of b.u.t.ter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: ”Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

WALK

Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.