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'
I
am
fenced
in
,
planted
here
like
one
of
my
own
trees
.
I
say
,
"
My
son
,
"
I
say
,
"
My
daughter
,
"
and
even
the
ironmonger
looking
up
from
his
counter
strewn
with
nails
,
paint
and
wire-fencing
respects
the
shabby
car
at
the
door
with
its
butterfly
nets
,
pads
and
bee-hives
.
We
hang
mistletoe
over
the
clock
at
Christmas
,
weigh
our
blackberries
and
mushrooms
,
count
out
jam-pots
,
and
stand
year
by
year
to
be
measured
against
the
shutter
in
the
drawing-room
window
.
I
also
make
wreaths
of
white
flowers
,
twisting
silver-leaved
plants
among
them
for
the
dead
,
attaching
my
card
with
sorrow
for
the
dead
shepherd
,
with
sympathy
for
the
wife
of
the
dead
carter
;
and
sit
by
the
beds
of
dying
women
,
who
murmur
their
last
terrors
,
who
clutch
my
hand
;
frequenting
rooms
intolerable
except
to
one
born
as
I
was
and
early
acquainted
with
the
farmyard
and
the
dung-heap
and
the
hens
straying
in
and
out
,
and
the
mother
with
two
rooms
and
growing
children
.
I
have
seen
the
windows
run
with
heat
,
I
have
smelt
the
sink
.
'
I
ask
now
,
standing
with
my
scissors
among
my
flowers
,
Where
can
the
shadow
enter
?
What
shock
can
loosen
my
laboriously
gathered
,
relentlessly
pressed
down
life
?
Yet
sometimes
I
am
sick
of
natural
happiness
,
and
fruit
growing
,
and
children
scattering
the
house
with
oars
,
guns
,
skulls
,
books
won
for
prizes
and
other
trophies
.
I
am
sick
of
the
body
,
I
am
sick
of
my
own
craft
,
industry
and
cunning
,
of
the
unscrupulous
ways
of
the
mother
who
protects
,
who
collects
under
her
jealous
eyes
at
one
long
table
her
own
children
,
always
her
own
.
'
It
is
when
spring
comes
,
cold
showery
,
with
sudden
yellow
flowers
--
then
as
I
look
at
the
meat
under
the
blue
shade
and
press
the
heavy
silver
bags
of
tea
,
of
sultanas
,
I
remember
how
the
sun
rose
,
and
the
swallows
skimmed
the
grass
,
and
phrases
that
Bernard
made
when
we
were
children
,
and
the
leaves
shook
over
us
,
many-folded
,
very
light
,
breaking
the
blue
of
the
sky
,
scattering
wandering
lights
upon
the
skeleton
roots
of
the
beech
trees
where
I
sat
,
sobbing
.
The
pigeon
rose
.
I
jumped
up
and
ran
after
the
words
that
trailed
like
the
dangling
string
from
an
air
ball
,
up
and
up
,
from
branch
to
branch
escaping
.
Then
like
a
cracked
bowl
the
fixity
of
my
morning
broke
,
and
putting
down
the
bags
of
flour
I
thought
,
Life
stands
round
me
like
a
glass
round
the
imprisoned
reed
.
'
I
hold
some
scissors
and
snip
off
the
hollyhocks
,
who
went
to
Elvedon
and
trod
on
rotten
oak-apples
,
and
saw
the
lady
writing
and
the
gardeners
with
their
great
brooms
.
We
ran
back
panting
lest
we
should
be
shot
and
nailed
like
stoats
to
the
wall
.
Now
I
measure
,
I
preserve
.
At
night
I
sit
in
the
arm-chair
and
stretch
my
arm
for
my
sewing
;
and
hear
my
husband
snore
;
and
look
up
when
the
light
from
a
passing
car
dazzles
the
windows
and
feel
the
waves
of
my
life
tossed
,
broken
,
round
me
who
am
rooted
;
and
hear
cries
,
and
see
other
's
lives
eddying
like
straws
round
the
piers
of
a
bridge
while
I
push
my
needle
in
and
out
and
draw
my
thread
through
the
calico
.
'
I
think
sometimes
of
Percival
who
loved
me
.
He
rode
and
fell
in
India
.
I
think
sometimes
of
Rhoda
.
Uneasy
cries
wake
me
at
dead
of
night
.
But
for
the
most
part
I
walk
content
with
my
sons
.
I
cut
the
dead
petals
from
hollyhocks
.
Rather
squat
,
grey
before
my
time
,
but
with
clear
eyes
,
pear-shaped
eyes
,
I
pace
my
fields
.
'
'
Here
I
stand
,
'
said
Jinny
,
'
in
the
Tube
station
where
everything
that
is
desirable
meets
--
Piccadilly
South
Side
,
Piccadilly
North
Side
,
Regent
Street
and
the
Haymarket
.
I
stand
for
a
moment
under
the
pavement
in
the
heart
of
London
.
Innumerable
wheels
rush
and
feet
press
just
over
my
head
.
The
great
avenues
of
civilization
meet
here
and
strike
this
way
and
that
.
I
am
in
the
heart
of
life
.
But
look
--
there
is
my
body
in
that
looking
glass
.
How
solitary
,
how
shrunk
,
how
aged
!
I
am
no
longer
young
.
I
am
no
longer
part
of
the
procession
.
Millions
descend
those
stairs
in
a
terrible
descent
.
Great
wheels
churn
inexorably
urging
them
downwards
.
Millions
have
died
.
Percival
died
.
I
still
move
.
I
still
live
.
But
who
will
come
if
I
signal
?
'
Little
animal
that
I
am
,
sucking
my
flanks
in
and
out
with
fear
,
I
stand
here
,
palpitating
,
trembling
.
But
I
will
not
be
afraid
.
I
will
bring
the
whip
down
on
my
flanks
.
I
am
not
a
whimpering
little
animal
making
for
the
shadow
.
It
was
only
for
a
moment
,
catching
sight
of
myself
before
I
had
time
to
prepare
myself
as
I
always
prepare
myself
for
the
sight
of
myself
,
that
I
quailed
.
It
is
true
;
I
am
not
young
--
I
shall
soon
raise
my
arm
in
vain
and
my
scarf
will
fall
to
my
side
without
having
signalled
.
I
shall
not
hear
the
sudden
sigh
in
the
night
and
feel
through
the
dark
someone
coming
.
There
will
be
no
reflections
in
window-panes
in
dark
tunnels
.
I
shall
look
into
faces
,
and
I
shall
see
them
seek
some
other
face
.
I
admit
for
one
moment
the
soundless
flight
of
upright
bodies
down
the
moving
stairs
like
the
pinioned
and
terrible
descent
of
some
army
of
the
dead
downwards
and
the
churning
of
the
great
engines
remorselessly
forwarding
us
,
all
of
us
,
onwards
,
made
me
cower
and
run
for
shelter
.
'
But
now
I
swear
,
making
deliberately
in
front
of
the
glass
those
slight
preparations
that
equip
me
,
I
will
not
be
afraid
.
Think
of
the
superb
omnibuses
,
red
and
yellow
,
stopping
and
starting
,
punctually
in
order
.
Think
of
the
powerful
and
beautiful
cars
that
now
slow
to
a
foot
's
pace
and
now
shoot
forward
;
think
of
men
,
think
of
women
,
equipped
,
prepared
,
driving
onward
.
This
is
the
triumphant
procession
;
this
is
the
army
of
victory
with
banners
and
brass
eagles
and
heads
crowned
with
laurel-leaves
won
in
battle
.
They
are
better
than
savages
in
loin-cloths
,
and
women
whose
hair
is
dank
,
whose
long
breasts
sag
,
with
children
tugging
at
their
long
breasts
.
