Here they are then, the nightjars, spiked owls and toads
Salamanders for droughts and floods, kin to needs and wants
How Mortal shivers in his little pocket-tent, having caught cold
In these damp climes; he is spinning some black imagined threads
A gift to his mistress.
I am thinking too, of frost-houses and spiced compotes
The painting in a castle of the Christ-baby illuminating the animals
The usual cowshed beasts glint with gold rays he has conferred
His mother despairs of his propensity for joy and sorrow
As all our mothers do.
She only wanted him to be happy, the animals quite ordinary.
Veronica Aldous 2015 All Rights Reserved