Coolness at evening,
a delicate astringent

It seems only last week
those sunsets,
like gardens of sky
in all their extravagance,
kept on without end,

the lightest of breezes,
trembling sage.

Now, the curtains drawn
earlier each evening,
the dinner wine left half-finished.

One guest after another
passing through.
A few quiet hours here,
a long, difficult journey from town,
before heading on.

What is the expression?
Gathering one’s thoughts
as if kindling or hen-of-the-woods,
or perhaps something rarer still.

Rueful smiles,
their dear, ageing faces ...
Never time enough

before having to head back,
back to where they left off.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences