Henry St Leger-Davey, Winchester, England
Just not as they ought to be.
This time, last night, was the Wednesday of my discontent,
Which did flourish, surprised at its own appearance.
Could I her compare to a day so impaired
By rain? Mere moments past being told of light
And warmth… unforgettable picnics and such,
To tell to our child ‘round the crackle of reddening timber,
The tale of that day, that dear day we so dined,
But it rained it just rained and forgot I was there.
This time felt damp, when touched by our spirits,
But these things are just not as they ought to be.
This time was blessed with all the fate available to it
As could be allocated, in a middle-class living room
Mid-week, during Titans’ turmoil over
Whether I should place my hand above or below or in the same place as hers,
Forgetting myself and knowing naught but her fidgets,
Which frolicked on my retina, dancing in the rain,
With no-one’s eyes glancing over to another’s.
My cry for hunger went unnoticed, since
Her fingers want for little but the hem of her own dress;
Content with this dull occupation, her line of sight
Clashed with my different desire to touch; we leered into her lap,
A frightful discord thudding my unnoticed eyes.
How unjust it is for me to moan,
That she will never look away, spy my seat
Forgotten, and match my yearning for simplicity
Of met gazes, still fingers and rain too soft to sound through this abode,
But these times are just not as they ought to be.