The Copper Beech

It is half past ten in Stonington.

The trees droop apprehensive of the heat

And the sky has turned that pale suspicious colour

That means that it cannot support more light.

Here on the terrace I and a companion

Each pretends to read. The papers say

That it is 90 in New York today.

Across the street work is going forward

On the abominable house that once I fancied,

Half, might be mine, and which was in fact the home

Of the anonymous couple I used to hear

At night arguing in their unhappy bedroom.

Now they are throwing out another wing

And the site of overlooked love is changed beyond recognition.

What will the day, what will the summer bring?

Psychic storms or calm productive doldrums?

Our neighbours are no saner than ourselves.

Perhaps it is time to give the Stones a ring

Or to complain of the view from the gallery tower

Falling like a shadow across the calm veranda

Rich with malice and the threat of accidental meeting.

This is not a house but a collection

(The largest in private hands?) of sacred objects,

A spiritual boutique where anyone,

Even the wrecker who had come to spoil,

May find himself spending more than he expected

On something he cannot quite identify.

Here the little horrors become the household gods.

For the work of love requires a rule of thumb,

Not no laws in particular but its own

Whose pseudonym, at least here and now, is pleasure:

The morning wasted in work and misquotation,

A light but leisurely lunch, then reading

Walking or just watching the sun all afternoon

Till, hungry, we draw to evening and ombre.

Who are we to thank for all of this?

The greatest favours are conferred in absence

Sometimes, as a syllable gives comfort

Dependent on the time and place and person.

When pleasure and reality occur

Is there room for extra contemplation

Or the lyrical promenade? It is enough

To know (and this is surely recognition)

That the world is spherical and perfect.

Now I wish to introduce the copper beech

We saw on our walk, English and native here as I am,

Whose shade is not the green of contemplation

But the imagination’s rich metallic colour

Wherein, under libido, we live.

Source: Minutes: Poems (1968)