JOHN HOLLOWAY

January pastoral See, aconites’

drowsy butter-ice: index of new things coming. Why though should such glister, glitter, now mean

as a child one day, dismounted for the earliest primrose in the Weald, and pealed a jubilant cycle-bell; and have rejoiced

I have my wish. But a wish for simply, no new thing swallow-flash or other festival of spring. This slush we

seagulls blustered inland, to whirl roistering Atlantic at us along a Force Eleven raving intact over hours of

counties to this needle in the key-hole or surprised chimney-note, the hard book I plod through by a whitening fire and silence

beyond the quiet wall, are enough; after those few simple but now changeless words spoken, we need no new thing.

little, to me who

times since; till now

trudge in, all those

’ elm-derelict snowy

wind-hacked but only