Poems

CHRISTMAS WITH MOTHER

How little, I think, you know me.
You never liked the sort of girls I liked,
or poetry, or motorbikes.
You disapprove of my intelligence.

And it was Christmas at home again,
ribbons, parcels, sulks and indigestion
and an endless Western.
You were the centre of attention.

I suppose I must have minded it,
especially when I unwrapped
('for both of you') two of your happy
choices: a sailing-ship. A windmill.


SUTTON HOO IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM

It is the texts come down to this:
a stranger's eye, the museum piece
...